Until
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "They're still not . . . not anything. At least not here. Not now. On a Sunday evening with her right hand in his left and The Way You Look Tonight weaving in and out of the dancers like a promise just for them." TARDIS-verse short WIP set during 'Till Death Do Us Part (4 x 11). NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Until

Summary: "They're still not . . . not anything. At least not here. Not now. On a Sunday evening with her right hand in his left and _The Way You Look Tonight_ weaving in and out of the dancers like a promise just for them."

Spoilers: Set During 'Till Death Do Us Part (4 x 11), but no real spoilers unless you literally know nothing about that episode

Series: In the TARDIS-verse, after "Calculation" and "Nighthawks" (which are concurrent with one another) and before "Unexpected Light." Other stories in the series are TARDIS: Time and Relative Dimension in Space, Maybe I'll Miss you, Stupid Mouth Shut, and Circle 'Round the Sun. Not a Dr. Who crossover, just a borrowed concept.

A/N: Oh, look! I'm so not writing that I'm not writing a multi-chapter inversion in the TARDIS-verse. I have most of the whole thing written; should be 2 or 3 chapters posted over the next week or so. Still for Docnerd89, who took the trouble to say some incredible nice things about my writing, and also for ER whose epic flails also made me not so lonely and down and DRAMA!QUEENY

* * *

It's something about the dress. It has to be. The way it clings and falls. The subtle luster of the color, simple and elegant as a jeweler's setting.

Her skin is exquisite in contrast. She's pale with the short winter days, but against the silver curve of the neckline, the abrupt grey horizontal of the sleeve, he can see the blood—the life—rushing just beneath the surface. The pale blue tracery of veins carries it back and forth, back and forth, and he wants to follow.

It has to be the dress. The alternatives are just . . . well he's not going there, because they're still not . . . not anything. At least not here. Not now. On a Sunday evening with her right hand in his left and _The Way You Look Tonight_ weaving in and out of the dancers like a promise just for them.

It's the dress. Somehow that has to be it, even though he's seen more of her. Lower necklines on everyday blouses. Shorter skirts when they've gone undercover. _Oh, God, when they've gone undercover_.

"Castle!"

His name is loud, startling in his ear, on her tongue. He jerks back, but she's in his arms and it only ends up pulling her closer. He goes rigid. Braces for impact. Expects her to end the moment with a short, sharp shock.

But she's laughing. A little shy, but bright-eyed and laughing, and she just takes a half step back from him. Not even a half step. She gives him a look that says she wishes she didn't have to do even that much.

Something gives way inside him, and he is just this side of stamping his foot, because she _doesn't_ have to. _They_ don't have to.

It's something about the dress or the open bar or the joy and love just pouring out of Kevin and Jenny. It's something about the moment that makes him greedy.

He closes the distance. Inches his hand along her lower back, settles his palm along the inviting sweep of her spine, and rests his cheek against hers.

* * *

Everyone is studiously not watching them. They're all talking and laughing and tucking into their second pieces of cake. They're stealing their own moments. Not one of them is paying any attention whatsoever to her and Castle.

It's suspicious.

It's like there was a memo from the bride and groom. _Guests will, under no circumstances, act like it is notable in any way that Kate Beckett and Richard Castle are . . . _.

Are_ what? _

This is a date. A last-minute leap into the abyss, but it's a _date,_ and everyone is very pointedly acting like . . .

Like it's not fucking monumental that she offered and he accepted, and yes, he was eager, and she had a moment's worry that he'd break out into some ridiculous dance, but it wasn't . . . weird or anything.

It keeps not being weird. It's a problem. Because he's easy and relaxed and charming. (_Good _God_ is he charming._) And she picks up falling for him right where she left off.

If she ever left off. She didn't. She can't have, given how far gone she is. How far gone he is.

He _is. _Just as far gone as she is, and why aren't they doing this?

It's like time travel. Back to normal a year ago. No, not a year. Two. More than that, really.

She shakes it off, the scorekeeping. The postmortem. The litany of missed opportunities and crossed signals and cowardice. His and hers.

There's time enough for that later, when she can't feel every one of his fingers on her hip. Light and easy and firm and possessive all at once. Five certain ellipses at her waist.

She steals a glance up at him. He's thinking. There's something dangerous on his mind, and she's transfixed. She wants to know.

He's not even looking at her. He's somewhere else when his fingers find the lonesome, empty hollow, low on her hip bone, just this side of her spine. It radiates out and up and along. Electricity. Intimacy. Desire.

She gasps out his name, and he comes back from wherever he was—wherever he was about to take her—with an awkward start. She stumbles against him and heads turn.

It's remarkable, after all. The two of them stumbling. Missing a step where the other is concerned. It doesn't happen very often.

Except it happens all the time. Just not so literally.

Kate sweeps a glance around the dance floor, and one by one, heads dutifully swivel away. She laughs. Looks up to share the joke with Castle. To soften the blow when she moves away. One of the has to move away. Because . . . _because . . ._

She looks up at him and sees the last of it slip away. The warmth. The light, easy truth that he wants her and she wants him and someday_. . . Someday._

She's jolted back into the here and now with a scar that aches and pulls and would _not_ be hidden by a single thing she owns. With the man who doesn't know she knows he loves her.

She takes a step back. Half a step back. Because one of them has to move away.

He's about to admit defeat. She sees it in the downward arc of his chin. The way his shoulders drop into a familiar set that she hopes is patient.

He looks at her feet. Their backward course.

And then he makes a decision. He takes her back in time again. Pulls her pigtails with the wicked grin she's missed. Tugs her closer and lays his cheek against hers.

She turns to stone for a moment. Hips, shoulders, spine, all of them hard and unyielding. Their rhythm is broken again. And then his voice is in her ear.

_You're lovely . . ._

She's never heard him sing. Not really. Not like this. Low and warm and surprisingly tuneful and just for her. She wants more than just three syllables. She wants more.

She leans her cheek against his lapel and ignores the way the heavy scent of gardenia tickles her nose. She drinks him in.

* * *

He has to let her go. He knows that. For her sake and for his.

For her sake, because she's not ready. Not in the light of day. In the middle of the night, in middle of a dozen nights, it's different. But she's not ready.

He has to let her go. Because tonight, he could convince her. Tonight he'd hardly have to try. For his sake, he has to let her go.

She's whispering memories against his shoulder. Her memories. Their memories. And it's so obvious what they do to each other. So obvious that her skin tingles and flushes, that his breath catches with every new part of her he's allowed to see, allowed to touch.

Tonight, he'd hardly have to try, but what then?

She's not ready, and maybe it makes him a coward, but he can't risk her explaining it away. Explaining _them_ away. Blaming it on the champagne, the music, the dress.

Maybe it makes him a coward, but _he's_ not ready in his own way. Not for the dangerous things he's thinking. Not for the rest of their lives to be stretching out before him so clearly. _So_ clearly. He's readier than she is, but that . . . _that_ . . .

It's something about the dress.

He's toying with it, even though she's slapped his hand away more than once. It's fascinating, that flounce of fabric. Inviting. No job in the world but to draw the eye to where her waist dips in. To where the long curve of her hip flares out. No job but sheltering his fingertips, providing the illusion of cover. The illusion of skimming away what precious little separates her skin from his.

She's slapped his hand away, but not lately. Not since she wrinkled her nose at the heavy scent of his boutonnière and rested her head against him anyway. Lately, she's been shivering against him, arching closer, and stumbling over her words when he hits just this spot. Just underneath. Just _there_.

And the things she's doing with her fingers . . . It's not retaliation. Not their usual strike and counterstrike. Casual touches and innuendo and significant looks. This is something else entirely. This is warmth. Exploration. Heady contact without having to weigh the cost of every simple declaration. Every obvious outcome of wanting.

This is what it could be like if she were ready.

She's not ready, and he has to let her go, but he's seriously considering paying the band to keep on playing this song. Playing it over and over and over. Until she is. Until.

* * *

She forgets to keep looking. At some point, she abandons the periodic perimeter checks to confirm that they are all most definitely not looking. At some point her eyes drift most of the way closed and she can only be bothered to open them when a glare is required or he needs to know that she'll always catch him staring. That he's not subtle.

He's not subtle. He passed subtle sometime back when his fingers slipped under that weird faux pocket that she hates. When she slapped his hand away and his name came out far breathier than she'd intended. When she didn't slap his hand away. When it takes her a moment to realize that it's not _him_ making that satisfied noise in the back of his throat.

He's not subtle, and she's not worried. She probably should be. Even if no one is looking, she probably should be. But it's like she's forgotten how.

She stops wondering how long this song is. How long before she has to let go. Abandons the idea that she ought to let go. That she has to. That's she's not ready for this.

He's smiling at something she's been saying. Short phrases chained together with snatches of melody. Punctuated by her body against his. They're not quite sentences and he's a little smug. She shouldn't let him get away with it, but she does. And she can't remember why this is a bad idea.

The thought tumbles through her mind that he's had a haircut. She's surprised to find her fingers rucking up the short, short hair at the base of his skull. Surprised in a lazy kind of way that her temple is brushing along his jaw. That the contrast—rough stubble and downy soft fuzz—makes her shiver.

She knows it's crazy. Dim and distantly, she knows it. That it doesn't matter who's watching and who's not because it's about her. Where she is and where she needs to be. That she's getting there, but she's not there yet.

It's _crazy,_ but the heel of his hand, the flat of his nails, the drift of his palm are a perfect storm, and letting go is the last thing on her mind.

* * *

It sounds like thunder. Very polite thunder with a bright murmur underneath. It takes him a minute to realize that it's applause. That the couples around them are smiling and breaking apart. That he's still holding her.

He should let go, but he can't quite make himself. He pulls back a little. It's a spectacularly bad idea, because she doesn't, and there are any number of places his lips might wind up the next time either one of them takes a breath.

It's not an immediate problem. She's not breathing, and he can't remember how.

He tries to think of something to say, but his mind is crowded with what he _wants_ to say, and just out of memory's reach are a hundred reasons why he can't. Shouldn't. Why now is not the time, even though he'd swear she's waiting. She's _waiting. _

Her hand tightens around his. It's not sudden, but it feels like it, after that. The long moment stripped of pretenses. It feels sudden, and her hand is falling away from his shoulder.

_No. _He wants to shout it. Almost does, but then she reverses course. Curves her palm around his neck and gives him this _smile_. This incredible smile.

It's enough to make it bearable—almost bearable—when she steps away. Says something to him. To someone else.

The music starts again and there's an unfamiliar hand in his. Tiny, unfamiliar fingers that barely reach his shoulder. His feet are moving and he's somehow making small talk.

He hears his name and manages to wrench his eyes away from Kate. Looks down to find Jenny looking up at him.

She's absolutely radiant, and he can't help grinning at first. But then he sees it. Then he notices. The slightest furrow between her brows.

His grin falters, and she pats his shoulder.

"Oh, Rick. You have to be careful." Her tone is warm. Kind and sympathetic, but also . . . stern?

There's a warning just beneath the surface. She repeats it. Makes sure he hears. "You have to be careful."

* * *

Ryan turns out to be a really good dancer. Light on his feet and utterly unconcerned that she towers over him.

But conversation isn't his strong suit at the moment. He can't keep his eyes off Jenny, and he keeps trailing off. Doesn't even notice when they glide by Lanie and Esposito and the three of them gang up just a little.

"How bad?" Esposito nods toward the groom.

"Pretty bad," Kate confides. "Can't string more than three words together."

"That is bad," Lanie says with a shake of her head. "I like a man who can keep up his end of the conversation and my dance _is _next, Mr. Newlywed."

"Huh?" Ryan looks startled, but it's gone in a second. He smiles wide over Kate's shoulder. "Isn't she . . . ?"

"Beautiful," they answer in chorus. Rolling their eyes a little, but just a little. And it doesn't last. The three of them are grinning like idiots.

And then the two of _them _are grinning like idiots and Kate is on the outside looking in. Lanie whispers something in his ear. Esposito leans in. Tightens his arm around her waist as the music carries them off to another part of the dance floor.

She doesn't blame them. The happiness is coming off Kevin in waves, and who wouldn't want to catch a little for themselves?

It hits her then: She has. Today, it's more than a little. It's like it's pouring into her and she can't think where to put it all.

"I'm really _so _happy for you," she blurts it out suddenly. She blushes but stumbles on. "Both of you."

Ryan is startled enough to haul his attention away from Jenny. "Thanks," he says quietly. "I'm a lucky guy all the way around."

They smile at each other a minute. It's smaller, more reserved. More the two of them and how they are. And Kate thinks she's lucky too. That's she's caught more than a little bit of happiness over the years and only just noticed.

Ryan's gaze drifts to follow the swirl of white to Kate's left. She's determined not to look. _Trying _not to look.

She looks, and of course he's looking back. He tips his head toward Jenny. She and Kevin can't take their eyes off each other and it's just _ridiculous_.

She bites her lip to keep from laughing. Looks up again. Castle is watching her intently. Not quite smiling. She raises her eyebrows. A question, but he shakes it off. His smile is back. Almost back.

There's something on his mind and it's not like before. It's not the good old days before there was anything much behind pushing one another's buttons. She thinks it might be what happens next.

Another couple steps in between them. Jenny all but disappears, just a slip of train sweeping the parquet.

Castle is looking over his shoulder, his eyes on her until the very last second. Her eyes on him even after the music puts his back to her.

"He's a good guy," Ryan says quietly.

"Castle?" It's too loud. She was going for a joke. Something light. But it's too loud and she feels hot and uncomfortable all along the neckline of that stupid dress. She notches it down. The volume and the trying too hard. "He's all right."

"No, I mean it." His voice is eager, fast. The tips of his ears go red and he rushes on. "He's a good guy."

Kate thinks she should say something, but there's that feeling again. Like there's too much happiness—a little serious, a little solemn now—and too much. She doesn't know what to do with it and it spills out. Messy and not like her.

She ducks her head and nods. Ryan nods back.

* * *

Castle thinks about joking. Laughing it off. A sidelong glance and a promise that he's always careful. But he looks down her, so small and earnest and well meaning, and all he can come up with is, "Ok."

It seems to be the right answer or close enough, because Jenny gives him another radiant smile, and they're quiet for a while.

She's easy to dance with. Easy to be with. He feels lucky. Strangely proud to be here like this. Not just Kate's tag-a-long. But here as himself.

He feels himself smiling and knows he's caught. Expects Jenny to tease him. To match his grin, but she's looking thoughtful again. Over his shoulder. Or around him, really—his shoulder is about a mile above her head.

He turns her a little. Assumes she's looking for Ryan—_for her husband_, he thinks and grins to himself again—and tries to make it easier for her.

"She's so good to him," she says quietly. "Right from the beginning she let him be one of the guys."

He laughs, "She never lets _me _be one of the guys."

"No." She gives him a sly smile. "She doesn't."

Castle swallows. Feels caught, but he's not sure how it happened. Not sure _what _happened.

She lets him squirm a minute, then goes on. "They were hard on him at first. Even Javier."

He thinks about it. Young Ryan—even younger—walking into _that. _Beckett and Esposito and a wall of stoic silence. Stoic on a good day.

He's interested. His embarrassment bleeds away. Even the pull toward Kate ebbs a little. A little. He's interested and guiltily wishes he had his notebook.

"He's sweet." Jenny smiles softly. "Kevin's sweet. And sometimes he feels too much for someone who does what they do. It was hard for him, but Kate helped."

"How?" He wonders, a second too late, if he should have asked it. Wonders what he's really asking.

"She . . ." Jenny falters. "I don't know if I'll say this right."

Castle waits. Nods encouragement.

"There. On the job. She never once treated him like a kid. Never gave him a break. Never acted like he needed it."

"Not on the job," he says. Jenny nods back like she's having a hard time with it. "But?"

"Their first bad case . . . _really _bad. A little boy . . . they went over to Kevin's place. Kate and Javier," she glances up at him like she's not sure she should be telling him this.

"Cheap beer and war stories?" He says it with a quiet smile. Tries to hide how much he wants to hear this. He needs to hear this.

She laughs a little. _Thank God,_ she laughs a little and goes on. "And not a word about the case. Stayed up 'till all hours and the whole time—the whole time, Kevin said—he just wanted them to _go_ so he could fall apart. I mean he wanted them there. He wanted to be . . . he _wants _to be like them."

She trails off, and Castle doesn't know what to say this time so he waits. She's peering over at them again—Beckett and Ryan—but his back is to them and he can't find a polite way to turn them so that he can see what's keeping her from going on. What's so damned interesting.

"Kate came back," she says, and it sounds like she's made a decision. Like she's gathered her thoughts and knows exactly what she's going to say. "She put Javier in a cab and turned around and knocked on his door again and just sat with him. He was a mess by then, of course."

She sounds fond. Proud. In love.

He smiles. "Of course."

She smiles back at him, and he tries to wait. He can't quite manage. "What happened?"

"She waited. He said he cried himself out, but it took awhile, and she just waited. And when he could laugh at himself a little bit, he asked her how she did it. How she managed."

She stops again and as adorable as she is—as impossible as it is to even be _annoyed _in her presence—Castle thinks about pinching her. His collar feels tight, and the dance floor feels too crowded, and he just wants to _know_.

"What did she say?" He blurts out before too long.

"She said she didn't. She doesn't." She looks up at him. Serious for the first time. No hint of a smile. "Kevin didn't know what to say, and then she just went on. Calmly went on and told him exactly what every case does to her, what it costs to just . . . not let yourself feel it. And then she told him not to change. That he'd be a better cop and a better man if he stayed just the way he was."

Castle feels something twist inside, pain and pride. He's proud of her. Amazed at all the ways her job—her life—is hell bent on breaking her and she's still this . . . force to be reckoned with. Burning bright.

He scans the dance floor. Feels like he has to see her, and there they are—Beckett and Ryan—off to the side. She's smiling at Lanie and Esposito as they dance away, caught up in each other.

He looks for a long time. Sees her smiling at Ryan and Ryan smiling at her and realizes that they know each other in a way that he'll never know her. That Jenny will never know Kevin. He thinks it should bother him. At least as a writer it should bother him. But he can't feel anything but glad they have one another.

Kate looks up suddenly. She always does know when he's staring. Always catches him. She's smiling at first, then questioning. He shakes his head—just barely—and gives her a grin.

They're turning. He and Jenny are turning with the music, and he just wants to keep looking at her, but the music won't wait. He turns again and she's out of sight.

He gives a guilty start when he realizes that Jenny's peering up at him thoughtfully. Considering him. Sizing him up.

He feels naked all of a sudden.

"She's more like Kevin than you think," Jenny says suddenly. Boldly. "She's more like him than _she _thinks. And you have to promise me you'll be careful."

"I promise," he says, even though it hurts. Even though he knows what it means. What it will cost tonight. What it might cost for a long time yet to come. Because she's not ready. "I promise."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you so much for the kind reviews of Chapter 1—for ANY reviews, but you've all been most kind. The middle of this expanded a bit, so that the story will probably end up being four chapters instead of three. Still for my very dear Docnerd89 and for ER, whose migraine, I hope, is better.

Spoilers: Spoilers: Set During 'Till Death Do Us Part (4 x 11), but no real spoilers unless you literally know nothing about that episode

Series: In the TARDIS-verse, after "Calculation" and "Nighthawks" (which are concurrent with one another) and before "Unexpected Light." Other stories in the series are TARDIS: Time and Relative Dimension in Space, Maybe I'll Miss you, Stupid Mouth Shut, and Circle 'Round the Sun. Not a Dr. Who crossover, just a borrowed concept.

* * *

Kate's heart pounds as she sees him, head and shoulders above the crowd. He's coming toward her. One shoulder dips way down, and as the dancers make way, she sees Jenny, barely able to reach his elbow.

_Oh. _Coming toward _them,_ of course. Toward her and Ryan. Kate blushes. She thought. She _assumed_ . . .

Castle's eyes are fixed on her. She thinks for a moment that he assumed, too, but it's not quite so simple. There's something on his mind.

Jenny drops Castle's elbow and runs the last few steps toward Kevin. They share a kiss. A private moment in the happy, buzzing chaos before they each move on to their next partners.

The two of them—she and Castle—are just standing there. He's not moving any closer and she wonders why. _Why?_

His face softens. It's still on his mind, whatever is prompting that mixture of petulance and earnest concern, but it seems that he can't look at her for very long without something kindling. God knows she can't.

He's asking a question, and before she knows what it is—what it _really_ is—Kate shakes her head. He looks peeved. Just for a fraction of a second, he looks peeved, and it makes her want to close the gap in two long strides and soothe him out of it. To wrap her arms around his neck and tip her head back and tease him into long looks and dangerous smiles.

Instead, she shakes her head again and doesn't really know why.

* * *

Jenny doesn't say anything. Just pats his shoulder and smiles like she trusts him—trusts his promise—completely. He spies Kate through the crowd, and he's not so sure she _should_ trust him. Not so sure at all.

He takes Jenny by the arm, leans down to make it easy on her, and leads her through the crowd. There's no way she should be able to see anything from her vantage point, but she unerringly picks her way through. The sea of bodies parts, and there they are, Beckett and Ryan.

Jenny lets go his arm. She dashes over to Kevin for a sweet kiss. The two of them barely have a second before they're claimed by their next partners.

Kate stands a little ways off, looking. Looking. Castle looks back, and she shakes her head. Her eyes dart around the dance floor and then find his. She shakes her head again.

A stubborn fist pushes against his chest. He wants to insist. To erase the distance between them and pull her to him again. She's shaking her head, but he wonders. He wonders if she's any stronger than him tonight. If she can be any wiser with all this—all _this_—going on.

His promise to Jenny saves him. Maybe saves them both. He nods at Kate and makes his way off the dance floor. She looks surprised to see him go and maybe a little relieved. He looks away. Looks back again, and she hasn't moved. She doesn't bother to look away when his eyes find hers.

_Maybe not relieved, _he thinks with grim satisfaction, but she doesn't follow. She just stands there until the music starts and Esposito glides up and casually takes her by the hand.

Castle watches. Watches her press her lips together in a smile at something Javier says. Watches as her joints loosen and she steps into the dance. Thinks to himself: _Good. Good, _though he's not sure why. He just wants . . . he _wants_. That's the problem. But it's his problem. Or his part of _their_ problem. Or whatever.

* * *

She told him to go. Well, not in so many words. And she didn't exactly tell him to _go_, but . . .

She misses him. It hasn't been 10 minutes and she misses him. The strong right angles of his shoulders moving through the crowd of dancers. His eyes on her. His hands.

She thought he'd dance with some bridesmaid or other, maybe Lanie after she's done taking Ryan for a spin. And then he'd claim her again. She'd claim him.

But she watched him leave the dance floor with a single look back, and now he's nowhere to be found and she_ misses_ him. She tells herself she's not worried. That he'll find her. She expects him to find her. He'll wait a decent interval and that's a good idea, right? Even if no one is watching. It's a good idea.

For now she's dancing with Esposito. He's just as bad as Ryan. Worse. It seems he can't be bothered to pay attention to the dance as he hauls her back and forth, keeping eyes on Lanie at any cost.

Kate's had enough of the cost. He's making it impossible to manage her heels, especially with the straight, narrow skirt on this stupid dress. She decides she's had enough.

"Beckett." Esposito blinks at her. It's like he's just remembered she's there. "Are you _leading_?"

"One of us should be," she snaps, but it's a momentary thing. She's not really annoyed. Well, she _is,_ but she can't hold on to it. Not tonight.

She gives him a half smile. Espo has the good grace to look a little sheepish. He's a good dancer, too, when he's not treating it like a stakeout.

Not that she has much room to talk. She just has the height advantage, and Castle should be easier to spot. Would be easier to spot if he were on the dance floor. Which he's not. He's not anywhere, but she's not worried.

"Maybe he's grabbing a drink," Esposito says casually.

"Who?" She misses casual by a lot. It wins her a pitying look. She sticks her tongue out at him.

He laughs in surprise. "You're having a good time."

Kate waits for her spine to stiffen. Waits to feel it: Fight or flight. Waits for the compulsion to deny, defend. To run. It doesn't come. There's just that pleasant, unsettled feeling in her stomach. Just an excited rush of blood to her cheeks. Maybe she's done running. Maybe tonight, she's finally done.

"Yeah," she says after a minute. "Hard not to around those two." She tilts her head to one side, then the other.

On one side, Jenny is dancing with her half brother. He's gawky and unsure at first, but she's patient. Laughs softly and settles his hand on her hip. Takes a firm grip on the other and nods encouragement. She puts him at ease, and it's obvious he'll be a heart-breaker some day.

On the other, Ryan and Lanie are having a ball. Smiling and egging each other on to more and more complicated moves.

"Hard not to," Espo agrees.

They lapse into comfortable silence for a while. He lets her lead. She keeps them turning in Lanie's direction. She has his back, just like always.

"I can intercept him you know." She has his back, but she's not a saint.

"Huh?" He's not really listening. Who can blame him when Lanie's shooting him a thousand-watt smile over Ryan's shoulder?

Still, Kate can't resist. "Lanie's date. On your two. Song's almost over. He's looking for her."

Esposito's head snaps to his right. His jaw muscle jumps once, but the next second he's narrowing his eyes at her. "You knew."

"Knew what?" Kate says, eyes wide.

"About Toby's boyfriend."

She laughs and doesn't bother to deny it.

"Not cool, Beckett." He shakes his head.

"And you'd know about cool, right?" She gestures across the dance floor. Esposito's cousin and some college friend of Ryan's are in a clinch. They're swaying together, oblivious to the band's upbeat tempo.

"Yeah, Looks like we both lost our _dates_," Esposito replies cooly.

"It's not . . . Alexis just couldn't make it . . ." She hates it. Hates how quickly the denial is on her lips. Hates the taste of panic. How exposed she feels. She's not done, apparently. Apparently she still wants to run, and she _hates_ it.

"Yeah. Lucky for Castle there's no way _you_ could've gotten a date to this thing."

The tone is typical Esposito. Tough. Dry. Sarcastic. But she can tell the difference. There's no real bite to it. He's calling her out, but that's as far as it goes. He's got her back, too. Even when she's her own worst enemy.

It's still there. The panic isn't going anywhere. She still wants to run. But this helps. They're not going to have a heart-to-heart about it. That's not who they are. But he's calling her out.

"Yeah," she says finally. "Lucky for Castle."

* * *

Castle wants a drink. Badly. But it's not a good idea. He ought to be gathering his inhibitions around him like armor, not knocking the last pathetic few of them down with alcohol and watching her.

He wants to brood, but it's hard when she's within sight. When he can see her eyebrows draw together as she plots revenge on Esposito, who is too fixated on Lanie to be a good partner. He loves to watch her, but it's not doing anything for his resolve.

He needs to find something to do with himself for a while. He pats his suit jacket and feels the hard outline of his phone. Maybe he'll call Alexis. Check in. That might kill some time. He looks around the room for an exit. A quiet spot to remove himself to.

That's when he notices it. Something he's been noticing _without _noticing. A pattern starts to come together, and it's not good for any number of reasons.

They're all around the outskirts of the dance floor. A ring of them. Whispering huddles of two or three. Some sitting, some standing, but none of them more than a yard from the stark line between the dance floor's dark wood and the pale marble that dominates the rest of the room. They're all watching, their attention divided now. Watching him. Watching Kate. Oh. _That. _

It's started already. He's pretty sure it just started. That for whatever reason, they weren't all standing there gawking while he danced with Kate. Maybe they didn't recognize him. Didn't recognize her. He's a different person with her. She's a different person with him. Especially tonight. _Especially _tonight. Maybe that shows.

But whatever kept it at bay before, it's started now, and he should have thought of it. Should have realized earlier. Should have had a plan. Alexis was supposed to be here and . . . oh . . . well, doesn't _that _make him father of the year.

He should've had a plan. But he didn't and he doesn't. Not unless it involves keeping Kate on the dance floor, tucked against him, safe and sound until they roll the whole place up for the night. Not unless that's a plan. It could be a plan. He wishes it could be.

He wants to give her this night. He doesn't want people bothering her. The thought surprises him at first. Then it startles him. Because it's not about him being possessive.

It's not _entirely _about that.

He wonders how bad it is for her. He knows—remembers, though he doesn't want to—that it was bad a few years ago. When he . . . the first time he almost lost her. It was bad then, but he was so intent on fixing _them_. And then, in the second book, he dealt with it, right? Acknowledged it, and . . . _shit. _He wonders how bad it's been all this time.

He makes his way to the edge of the dance floor. Tries to think like Paula would think. Like Gina. A group of three catches his eye. Their conversation is intense. A youngish man and woman are whispering fiercely. The older woman with them—sixtyish, their mother, maybe?—isn't bothering to whisper. _Three feet high and rising, _he thinks.

He needs a drink for this. He'll nurse it, but he definitely needs a drink. He sets out. Takes the long way around the banquet tables. Puts himself between the little group and the dance floor. He's two steps past them when the younger woman speaks.

"Mr. Castle?"

She has Kevin's nose and that helps for some reason. He thinks he remembers now. She's a cousin.

She's tentative, nervous. That helps, too. It's better than the alternative. And anyway, he's nervous, too. Strangely so.

He holds out his hand to her, then to the other two, "Rick. I was just going to get a drink. Join me?"

They exchange surprised looks. Not unpleased, but surprised. They follow him away from the dance floor.

* * *

She does dance with Toby, but it's not an interception. The band brings it way down for their next number, and Lanie and Esposito drift together like there's no one else in the room. No one else in the world.

She's a consolation prize, but she doesn't mind. Toby is smart, funny, and has serious moves. He teaches her a few ballroom steps, delighted at how quickly she picks them up. The center of the floor clears for them. They show each other off.

The other couples cheer them on. Some of the other couples. The newlyweds and the Esplainies of the world are too busy taking advantage of the low lights and the lead singer's smoky voice to notice.

Toby's hand is sure and steady at her waist as he reels her back in from a turn.

"You're amazing!" Kate exclaims, a little out of breath. It's a slow song, but he's putting her through her paces. It's exhilarating.

"What can I say?" he quips. "It's true what they say about all the good ones."

She laughs, happiness spilling out again. That's one thing she can do with it. She laughs.

"Sad but true," she says when she's done laughing. When she's done for now. "But it's working out for me. First time tonight I've had my partner's full attention."

"Not the first time," he counters. He grimaces as he feels her stiffen and miss a step. "I'm sorry. I . . . well, you know Lanie, but you and I don't really know each other. And when the two of you were dancing . . . I'm sorry."

She forces herself to relax. Takes in a breath and lets go. Just because people aren't looking doesn't mean they don't notice. Even strangers. He could they not? They've been noticing for years. She forces herself to relax, and it works. So they notice? So _what?_

"No need," she says, and the smile is for real. "So . . . taken _and_ gay. Tell me about him."

Toby laughs. Tells her about him. He's a public defender. They have a good-natured argument about the system. Discuss the pros and cons of Toby and his partner getting married, now that they can. In New York anyway.

"It's a lot of trouble," Toby admits. "Especially when you've been together for so long."

She looks over his shoulder at Jenny and Kevin. At Lanie and Javi.

"It is a lot of trouble," she grins at him, "but there's something about a wedding, isn't there?"

He follows her gaze. "There is. There really is."

The song ends, and they bow to each other. Share a laugh and a secret smile as Lanie edges her way over to them. She's a little apologetic. More than a little over the moon. Toby dramatically sweeps her into his arms, and they're off.

Kate backs her way off the floor and has every intention of hunting Castle down. She has no idea what a decent interval might be. She doesn't really care at this point. No one is watching. Everyone is watching. She's done caring. She wants to see him. She misses him. Tonight, she misses every single thing about him.

But Jenny's father has other ideas. He gives her a courtly bow, and she can't really say no. He says he wants to know all about it, and at first she assumes he means Castle. She assumes he's talking about Nikki Heat, and she steels herself.

But that's not it at all. He wants to know all about police work. Wants to know what his daughter is facing. What she's signed up for. A lifetime of fearing the worst in the world of the 24-hour news cycle.

Kate tells him the truth. That it's a hard job. Harder every day. That Kevin is a good cop and loves Jenny openly and unashamedly in the toughest room in the world. That she and Castle, Ryan and Esposito, they're a great team. That they always—_always_— do everything they can to make sure everyone goes home safe at the end of every single day. That their families, the ones they love, drive them and keep them smart, keep them safe.

The song ends, and he looks relieved. She hopes he looks relieved. She hopes she can give her friends that.

She thanks him for the dance and makes a bid for the sidelines again. And there's Jenny's brother. Half brother. The best man and someday heart breaker. He's staring at his shoes and asking her to dance. Asking Nikki Heat to dance, she suspects, and she knows the signs. She doesn't have it in her to say no.

He's taken Jenny's lessons to heart. He's painfully polite as he tries to count beats in his head, and under other circumstances, she might find it endearing. She might find his awkward attempts at conversation charming in their own right.

But she's distracted. Castle's still nowhere to be found. She's not worried. She's not. But she's out of sorts. What if he left. He wouldn't just leave, right? Even if something had come up. He wouldn't just leave.

The song ends, finally—_finally. _She's about to rush off, but Nelson (_Nelson?_) stops her and thanks her for the dance. He's so formal, so sweet that she backtracks and drops a kiss on his cheek. Leaves him standing there gaping as her heels ring out against the marble floor.

Now that she has a minute, the evidence is coming together. Things she's been noticing without noticing. Knots of people in one corner of the room. Coming and going, one or two at a time. Nervous when they go in, a little starstruck when they come out. She knows the feeling.

She makes a beeline for the red velvet curtain blocking most of the archway. She remembers it now. Just an odd little corner of the room. Windows looking out on nothing, a few chairs, and some other odds and ends.

It's mostly empty, this end of the room. One of the bars is near enough, but it's is a little cold over here, a little far from the action. Just a few stragglers talking in hushed, excited tones.

There's a bored-looking bartender. Kate swings by and asks for champagne. Thinks better of it and asks for two. Drops a hefty tip in her glass and gets a broad smile.

She plans to sweep through the curtain and rescue him. Because he must need rescuing. It's been God knows how long since they danced and he must. He must.

She pulls up short, champagne sloshing a little and she just manages to recover before it tops the rim. It's his voice. It's ridiculous, but his voice stops her in her tracks. She takes half a step to the side. Recon. She's mostly hidden by the curtain, and he's facing three-quarters away from her. _Good. _Recon makes sense.

She watches. Listens. His voice is low and excited. Eager and genuine. Nothing like the slick, superficial persona she's seen at events. She doesn't hate it. She's too fascinated by him to really hate it. But she likes it less.

This is nothing like that. He's talking about writing. Really talking about it when he's the one doing the talking, but that's not a lot of the time. She realizes what he's doing. He's getting them to talk. Getting them to tell _him _stories. And they filter out in ones and twos as others filter in.

She drops into a chair half concealed by a potted palm. Sips her champagne and listens. He might need rescuing, but not yet.

* * *

He wishes Alexis were here. Not that he needs a chaperone. But she's good at this. Reading crowds. Keeping him out of conversations like this one. Getting him out of them when he stumbles in.

"Don't you think?" The woman is looking at him eagerly. Her hand snakes out, bound for his sleeve, but he dodges. Makes a last-minute grab for his drink.

He has a drink. _Thank God. _He takes a long sip to buy time. He has no idea what she's talking about, but it seems a response is required."Yeah. Yeah . . . I think."

"I knew it," she squeals.

Castle tries not to wince. The quiet corner—not so quiet right now, even though it's just the two of them—was a good idea at first. Mostly out of sight of the dance floor, no chance of a real crowd forming. He's been able to do what he needs to do. He's chatted with a couple dozen people. Maybe a few more. Fans or friends of fans. It's been going well. He's been shaking hands and kissing cheeks. Thanking them all for their kind words. For reading the books.

Every once in a while, he signs something. A place card. A matchbook. The wedding program, next to his own name. That's weird. His signature sandwiched into the tight space between two columns with some serious kerning problems. Some niece of Jenny's did the programs. He remembers Ryan telling him that. He's happy to sign whatever they want, but it's weird.

This is not his favorite part of his life. A crowd that's there for him? Sure, he eats that up most of the time. But he's never been great at this, keeping it all in its place and not letting it spill over. Alexis is better at it. _She's had to be,_ he thinks with a twinge.

He wonders how long he's been at this. It feels like forever, and his energy for all of it is just about gone. He wants to get back to the dance floor. To be done with this part and back out there. Where Kate is.

He misses her. Not just holding her, although that . . . _that. _That probably doesn't fall under the heading of being careful. But he misses more than that. He misses seeing her like this. Happy and full of light.

It's been a long time. Longer than the eight months since she was shot. And it will be longer still. After tonight, who knows how long it will be before he gets to see her like this again. What they'll have to get through. If they get through it together. But he's not thinking about that. Not tonight.

A few people ask about her—about Nikki. For once it works in his favor. What everyone assumes. They lean around the heavy velvet curtain that masks part of the wide arch. They point her out on the dance floor and he's relieved to see that they're gone, the little knots of gawkers. They've followed him here or moved on anyway. They point her out and he nods. Stays non-committal, but they draw their own conclusions.

He's seen more than one phone number disappear back into a sequined clutch, and it makes him want to grin. It makes his pulse race. He likes the idea of being taken. He likes the idea of being hers. He promised Jenny that he'd be careful and he will be. _He will be. _But he likes the idea of being hers.

He shifts the conversation when he can. From Nikki to Raley. From the woman to the world he writes in. Mostly, they're happy to let him. Mostly, they take the hint when he raises his glass to Kevin and Jenny. To their day. They raise their own glasses and move on.

This woman is not taking the hint. She moves closer. The not-so-quiet corner is no longer a good idea.

Castle inches back. He can't even tell if she's hitting on him or wants something else. Maybe he does need a chaperone.

Whatever she wants, she's looking at him expectantly. He still doesn't have the faintest idea what she's talking about. He's teetering on the brink of something like panic when he feels a welcome buzz in his inside pocket.

"Would you excuse me a minute?" He reaches in and pulls out his phone. "Probably my daughter."

He lobs it out there. Sometimes it works as well as anything, dropping the fact that he has a kid. She doesn't leave, and he stifles a sigh. At least he's got plausible deniability in his hand.

It's Kate's face lighting up his phone. There's the usual frisson of excitement he feels every time she calls. Every time.

But he's confused. Why would she be texting him? He goes absolutely still, then. If she . . . he has no idea what he'd do if . . . _if. _He made a promise to Jenny. And he knows that Kate's not ready and that this whole night is just _messing_ with them. But if . . ._ if._

The woman sidles up next to him. Castle practically jumps out of his skin. He'd literally forgotten that she even existed. And right now, friend of Kevin and Jenny's or not, he'd wish her into the cornfield if he could. He doesn't know what to _do._

The woman peers over his shoulder and coos, "Oh! You're a _dad_. How old is she?"

He blinks at her. _Kate? Why does she want to know how old Kate is?_

"Your little girl," she lands a playful slap on his shoulder.

"Uh . . . 17." He pulls the phone protectively against his chest and moves away again. Tries to make himself as small as possible. She's super hands-y all of a sudden. Sometimes the kid thing goes the other way. Alexis would've reminded him of that. He definitely needs a chaperone. "She was supposed to be my date, but she got a better offer."

"So you're here alone." The woman arches an eyebrow at him.

Castle doesn't notice. He can't stand the suspense anymore. He peers down at the screen. It takes him a minute, but he finally makes sense of of the text.

He feels a hot flare of disappointment. A rush of relief. He doesn't know _what_ he feels, really, other than stupidly grateful. Grateful that he doesn't have to know what he'd do. Grateful that she has his back. She always has his back: _Need an exit? _

He looks up and smiles at the woman. He knows it must be rude, but he smiles.

"No," he says. "No, I'm not alone."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Again, thank you so much for the reads and reviews. This story is totally kicking me in the feels, and I'm so grateful to know that I'm not alone in being interested in this moment in their relationship. This chapter is extra specially for Docnerd89 and ER.

Spoilers: Spoilers: Set During 'Till Death Do Us Part (4 x 11), but no real spoilers unless you literally know nothing about that episode

Series: In the TARDIS-verse, after "Calculation" and "Nighthawks" (which are concurrent with one another) and before "Unexpected Light." Other stories in the series are TARDIS: Time and Relative Dimension in Space, Maybe I'll Miss you, Stupid Mouth Shut, and Circle 'Round the Sun. Not a Dr. Who crossover, just a borrowed concept.

* * *

Kate is on the edge of her seat. She's been on the edge of her seat for . . . well, who knows how long? Long enough to drink her champagne. Long enough to drink his. It's a rescue mission. She hasn't forgotten that, but he's talking. About her.

No. He's _not _talking about her. Very pointedly not talking about her. He has a dozen different ways of not talking about her. Redirections. Hesitations and trailings off, and she can hear the smile in his voice. She knows that smile.

He's not talking about her. He doesn't use her name if they don't first. Keeps it short with people who keep calling her Nikki. Sees point blank questions about them coming a mile away and heads them off. And when he can't, a cryptic pause before he murmurs that they're good friends.

They're _all_ good friends, he says next. He tells a funny story about Ryan. He asks how they all know Ryan and Jenny. Coaxes the conversation away from her and back to the happy couple.

She watches the dance floor and sees Jenny whirling from partner to partner. Kevin is beaming and applauding wildly. Just one of the dozen people gathered in a ring around her, and Kate feels a swell of gratitude and pride and something else that's . . . complicated.

_That._ There's always that.

But it's complicated. More complicated than _just_ that. Because it surprises her that he's doing this, and it shouldn't. He's thoughtful. She knows he's thoughtful. Or he can be when he's not barreling in on the bleeding edge of his enthusiasm. She feels guilty that it surprises her, so there's that. But something else, too.

He's guarded. Not just about her, and not just about them. He's friendly enough. Animated in a way. More so when he's steered the conversation clear of anything dangerous. Anything about her. About them.

But it's not like him. He's careful. Stingy with himself in a way that's not like him. Not like _her_ Castle. And he _is_ hers. The thought thrills and terrifies her. He's hers whether she's ready or not.

She thinks about the ways she knows him. The ways she knows him now and just how far it is they've come. How she knows the man he is with his family. At the 12th. With _their _family. With her. How he is with her. Open and uncalculating and completely without any kind of filter. And, yes, it's annoying, but it's also wonderful. And overwhelming sometimes. And sometimes not overwhelming at all. Sometimes it's exactly enough.

But this man—_this_ man—who is quietly charming and giving nothing away is so _not _him.

It hits her then: He doesn't trust easily. But that's not right, either. He _does._ By nature he does. He just can't. Shouldn't, because this is his life and he can't just go to a good friend's wedding—he can't just be her plus one and not have to do _this_.

It's complicated. And not just because of her. That burden isn't just hers. It's more complicated for belonging to them both, but she feels better for it.

He's not talking about her again. She knows. He's moving around the small space, changing conversational partners. She can't always hear the words, but she knows.

"Almost four years," she hears him say, and it's matter of fact. He's not giving away a thing. Not to them.

To her, it's all there. Frustration. Longing. Hope. Anticipation. Love. All of it woven in between the words. Everything they've been and everything they could be to each other.

And it's like a flame licking along the edge of all the reasons they're not together. All the reasons it's complicated. All the reasons she's not ready. It's like a flame.

The bartender catches her tilting back an empty champagne flute. She wanders over with the bottle. Kate hesitates, then holds her fingers a generous inch apart and raises the glass. The bartender sloshes a slightly more generous amount into it, then heads back to her station to pour drinks for a grinning young couple fresh from their brush with fame.

Kate pushes to her feet and knocks back the champagne before she really knows why. Something new is going on. A low, indistinct voice. A woman and no one else but Castle. Louder than he's been. Disjointed and more brightly artificial. He sounds tired. She wonders how long he's been at this. How long she's been listening, but the windows are a glossy January black and no help at all.

She edges over to the curtain. Angles herself so that she can see without being seen. There's Castle in profile, looking baffled. Distracted and frayed. He's not listening to the woman at all, but she's talking enough for two.

She's a tiny, curvaceous redhead in a perfectly cut LBD, all cleavage and hips and up- do. Kate recognizes the voice now. She's been in there a while, eagerly joining in whenever she could. And judging from the full-court press she's giving Castle, she's been biding her time. Waiting to get him alone.

Kate sets down her empty champagne flute a little more firmly than she'd intended. The bartender gives her a look and Kate flashes an apologetic grimace.

She's going in. Her hands smooth over her hips, her thighs. That stupid straight skirt. She stops.

What if he doesn't want to be rescued?

It's been . . . a while and he hasn't come looking for her. Maybe he's had enough push-me-pull-me for one night. Maybe he's worn out with it, this thing they're doing. They're not doing. Maybe he's tired of _not yet. _Tired of eventually. _Maybe_ . . .

She's exhausted all of a sudden. And angry. At herself. At him for not coming back for her. At the fact that she's hiding behind a velvet curtain trying to work up the nerve to lay claim to him for an hour or two.

She catches sight of him. Just briefly, but it's enough. His shoulders are at his ears and he's backpedaling like a Tex Avery cartoon. The redhead advances and he retreats.

Kate has to shove her fist against her mouth to stifle a yelp of laughter. It's gone just like that. The anger. The fear. It goes, just like that, and happiness rushes in again.

It's a rescue mission.

She heads back to the bar and asks for two fresh glasses. The bartender gives her a conspiratorial wink.

Kate pulls out her phone.

* * *

Two keystrokes. Three. _Y, _an exclamation point (this definitely calls for emphasis), and send. He breathes a sigh of relief, but it's short lived. He's suddenly, painfully aware of this stranger in his personal space. _Seriously_ in his personal space. She's been here a while, he realizes. He can't remember her name, but she's been popping her head into conversations. Half a dozen. More, maybe. He wonders how many signals he's missed over the last . . . how long has he even been back here? It feels like forever. Like forever since he's seen Kate.

He looks around expectantly. Nervously. _God_, he hopes she's close.

And there she is. Before he even finishes the thought, there she is.

"There you are," she says, scolding a little. There's a hint of a pout on her lips. She steps over to him, up close and personal. She presses a glass of champagne into his hand. Somehow, without his permission, his arm slips around her waist.

"Thanks," he says in a low voice and clinks his glass against hers.

She looks a little unsteady. She _is _a little unsteady. He feels her ribs rising and falling and he knows the feeling. That breathless feeling. They don't do this. Casual touches that last. That anchor them together in shared space. Charged air and shared breath. They don't do this, except tonight they do. And the sky hasn't fallen yet.

He splays his fingers wide and solid against her side. He meets her eyes, even though he's half afraid what he'll see. Maybe _he_'_s _the only one doing this tonight, and he promised Jenny he'd be careful. This is _not _careful. He meets her eyes.

She hesitates just half a second. Half a breath before she tips her head to the side. Meets his eyes, too, and says, just as low, "Missed you."

He loses track of what happens then. It stuns him. The two simple words stun him. Because he sees that it's true. She missed him. Missed him and more. More than just that is true. He sees and it's not an accident. She's letting him see. She's telling him.

He feels her responding to him. More. More than that. They fit together. They _work _in this deep down, perfect way, and it makes him ache.

He knows it wasn't just the dance. It's not just the wedding. It's not just champagne and good friends being over the moon in love. It's not just the dress.

Kate loops her arm around his waist, too. She politely—more or less politely—sets about extracting them from the situation.

It takes a while. The woman is not inclined to give up right away. She thinks she can get between them, and he wants to laugh. But he just hangs back.

Kate fields questions. Increasingly personal questions. The woman is escalating. Determined to come away with some prize. Some piece of him. Of them.

Castle bristles. Is about to say something he'll no doubt regret. For Kevin and Jenny's sake if not for his own. But Kate tightens her arm around his waist. Rucks up his jacket a little and hooks a finger through his belt loop. She's got it. She's got his back.

His shoulders ease. He catches Kate's eye and grins. This woman is out of her mind if she thinks she can go toe-to-toe with Kate Beckett in an interrogation setting. In any setting.

Kate turns into his body, just a fraction. She tells some story—about the case maybe? Today's case? There's a lot of "Rick" and "we" and "the two of us" involved. He's following her lead entirely. Gives short responses when she presses her fingers to his chest, starts to coax a detail from him and finishes his sentences.

It's an act. At least part of it is an act. He knows Beckett on a Rescue Mission when he sees it. But act or not, it's doing unspeakable things to both of them. Her eyes are shining and the color is high in her cheeks. He can feel her heartbeat quicken, tripping along her ribs.

In a perverse way, Castle is grateful for the other woman's stubbornness. Her physical presence is pretty much the only thing standing between him and real trouble.

The thought alarms him. Seriously alarms him, because Kate _will _win this and the woman will leave and it'll suddenly be just the two of them. It's not really private back there, but it's close enough. Too close. The way the air is thrumming between them—the way her hip bumps against his and her hand lingers over his pounding heart. It's too close and there are way too many convenient surfaces and . . . _No! _Just _no!_

Even if he hadn't promised Jenny and he _did. _He did. But even if he hadn't, it can't start like this. Not after all the work they've done. Not when he knows where he wants this to go. Where he wants them to end up. Whether he's ready for that or not doesn't matter a bit. Not when he _knows._

He thinks about seven kisses. More than that now. He thinks about a dozen nights. Here and there at first, and steadier all the time. How they leave each other a little less broken than they were. About how hard it is for her to ask, even though she has to know. Whether she heard him or not. Whether she remembers that terrible moment or not. She has to know. And when he realizes that—when he considers that—the fact that she asks and keeps asking, the implications just about floor him.

Kate's brow wrinkles a bit. She's still in the middle of a story, but she doesn't miss a beat. Just shoots him a quizzical, sidelong look. She must feel it, pressed against his side, her palm firm and steady at his waist. She must know he's coming apart at the seams.

The look he gives her is desperate. It must be, because she stops all of a sudden. Breaks off in mid-sentence. She tips her head toward the archway and then back toward him. Her lips flicker with a smile that should probably be illegal.

Castle can't help himself. He dips his head for half a moment and his lips just barely brush over her temple.

He thinks he must have said her name.

He hears her say, "I know," so softly. So barely there that it tastes more like hope than words. Like conviction.

He is in _so much _trouble.

"I'm _so _sorry," Kate says as she turns away from him slightly. Just slightly, and Castle sees the other woman smile. Actually _smile_, because that's what Kate Beckett can do when she puts her mind to it.

Kate reaches out and sets down her half-full glass. Touches the woman's arm briefly, then reaches across his body to pluck his glass from his fingers. It's mostly full and he thanks the universe for small favors.

"I'm so sorry," Kate repeats, "but I love this song, and he owes me a dance. Would you excuse us?"

And then they're going. Her arm is still around his waist. His palm is smoothing over her hip. And they're going.

* * *

It's late. It must be late. The crowd is thinner on the dance floor and it's like there are two dozen private little worlds, spinning and spinning.

They reach the edge, dark wood and pale marble intersecting, and they step into their own little world. No one is watching, but she wouldn't care if they were. Castle reaches for her right hand. She ignores it. She knots her fingers behind his neck and rests her cheek against his.

His shoulders tense and she feels a breath catch under his collar bones, her forearms rising with it. Like that—like the physical space of a breath between them—will make a difference. It stutters between them, that breath. It stutters, once, twice, before it finally makes it out of him and whispers over her ear.

He settles one hand on each hip, careful and distant from one another. Leaves the wide expanse of her lower back open and unexplored. But it's too late for that. She laughs a little in his ear, and he seems to get it. It's too late.

He surrenders. He says her name again, though she doesn't think he knows he's doing it. One arm curls around her waist and the other hand abandons its post on her hip. She barely has half a moment to miss it when she feels his fingers drag over the tip of one shoulder blade and skip to the other. They trace a glissando down her spine, vertebra to vertebra and his fingernails drag against the zipper of that stupid dress.

He stops. His hand jerks back, just a fraction of an inch, and stops.

It's her breath between them now. Stuttering. Propping up her ribs for a long moment, then collapsing in a sigh, and she's falling against him. She can feel the warmth of his skin, her skin, buzzing back and forth. Feeding each other even though he's not touching her.

It annoys her. The interruption of them when it could be—_should_ be—all contact and heat. Electricity. It annoys her in a lazy, melancholy sort of way and she finds herself singing along, just a phrase. Does she even know this song? She must. _Some things_ _that happened for the first time . . . _

Something tips in that moment. Her words trail off into a hum. A vibration of her lips against his skin and his hand is in her hair. His mouth dips to her cheekbone and his lips are urgent against her skin.

He's saying something, over and over and she can't make any sense of it. Not at first. Suddenly it resolves. A sentence. A command, and she's shocked into stillness. He keeps repeating it, and now his fingers replace his lips, careful and discreet. Hiding—thankfully hiding, hopefully hiding—behind the curtain of her hair.

"Kate, don't. Don't cry. I'm sorry. Don't cry."

* * *

He's relieved at first. He kissed her. Ok, not exactly a Hayes Code violation, but his lips and her skin and direct contact are well outside the boundaries of good intentions and promises. And annoyingly persistent redhead or not, _that_ was not going anywhere good.

_That_ was going somewhere _great_.

And terrible. And Jenny will kill him. Like a tiny blonde Fury, she will kill him dead, and he will deserve it.

They arrive at the edge of the dance floor and Kate untangles them. Unwinds her arm from around his waist. Ducks under his, and he realizes they just walked across a crowded room, joined at the hip and the world did not erupt in chaos and fire.

It's a not-so-crowded room now, which might have something to do with it. There's hardly anyone lingering at the tables and there's room to breathe on the dance floor. Lots of it. Couples pressed tight together and wide open spaces between them all.

He wonders how late it is. If they've been here for days. For a lifetime. It feels like it.

He gulps in a breath and sets one hand on Kate's hip. She looks up at him. Startled and something else. Determined. Dangerous. Dangerous for him.

He reaches for her hand and her fingers circle his wrist for just a second. _No. _It's as clear as if she's said it out loud. But just in case. Just in case he somehow hasn't understood, she slides that hand along the length of his arm. Every inch of it. Drags it over his shoulder, and it meets her other hand at the nape of his neck like a declaration of war.

He is in trouble. _So. Much. Trouble. _

He casts a desperate glance around the dance floor. Catches the low light dazzling off the bodice of Jenny's dress. But she and Kevin are untouchable. Forehead to forehead, eyes closed, swaying to the aching melody of the song. _Peggy Lee,_ he thinks. His mother loves it.

His mother. It's a stray thought and a life preserver. How much trouble can he get into while he's thinking about his _mother? _He lets out a breath and tells himself that he can do this. Settles his hands on her hips and thinks, _I can do this._

She laughs. A midnight sound in her throat. Against his ear. It burns through him like heat lightning. He's vaguely aware of responding. Saying something. Her name, an apology, he doesn't know what. He's some kind of idiot for thinking he can save himself. Save the situation. Save them. He's so far gone.

His left arm goes around her waist. All the way around her waist and his fingers hitch over the flare of her hip bone. His right hand has a list of tourist attractions at the ready. The fascinating prominence of her shoulder blade. Its twin across the delicate expanse of her. The hills and valleys of her spine. And all of a sudden there is resistance. His nails meet something and catch. Metal teeth that should be cold, but they're not. They're not.

His fingers leap away, even so. Not far. A millimeter or two is all he can seem to manage and even that is a struggle. Every second is a struggle. A struggle to keep still. At struggle to keep even that much space between them. A struggle against every single moment that's led them to this one. Tonight and and all the days and nights before.

She's still, too. He pulls back a little. Tries to steal a glimpse of her face, but she won't meet him half way. She sighs against him and it's a zero sum game. Any pitiful distance between his hand and her body. She erases it with a snatch of melody against his neck.

He's lost to it for a moment. There's a long, seductive moment when he forgets how much trouble he's in. But her voice tapers off. She's humming at first. Beautiful. Beautiful, but it falls apart.

He feels something warm. Moisture, he realizes, and before his brain can tell him anything about it, his lips are there, soft against her cheekbone and he's whispering. Pleading with her. His fingers find the same spot and crowd together with his words.

"Please. Kate, I'm sorry. Please don't. Kate, I'm sorry. Don't cry."

* * *

She starts to laugh. Starts to tell him that she's _not _crying. That it's an absurd thing to say. But his thumb trips over the corner of her mouth and she tastes salt. Her eyes go wide and she feels herself blushing, feels herself go red to the roots of her hair.

She does laugh then. Loosens one hand from the other and swipes at the bright trail she's left on his cheek. The evidence is damning.

"I'm a mess, Castle," she laughs, and it's shaky but real. "I'm a mess. It's just . . . it's a sad song."

She moves to rest her cheek against him again, but he stops her. Hands on her shoulders. Not quite arm's length, but not how it was a moment ago when she was falling and he was catching her. She'd like to die.

He's looking at her. Searching her face and she burns again. Burns, but not like a moment ago.

"Is that all?" he asks quietly. "Just a sad song?"

It's a mercy, that question. He's not telling her no. He'd never tell her no.

"Yeah. Yes," she fits her palm against his neck. Nudges his chin up with the heel of his hand so he can't look away. So he knows she's not looking away. "Just the song and . . ."

_Oh. _It's not just the song, but that's part of it, and she's an idiot. Six months of therapy, and she's still such an idiot. It's not just the song, but it's not what he thinks. Not at all what he thinks. She's desperate to convince him of that. To reassure him. But she's having trouble starting.

"My mother loves it," he says suddenly, and her eyes widen.

Is he actually in her head? That could be . . . awkward. Especially tonight. She blushes _again_. And it's not quite like a moment ago, but it's closer. All kinds of heat tangled up together.

"Mine too," she stammers. "My grandmother, really. But she sang it to my mom and my mom . . ."

She takes a shaky breath and he relents. Pulls her closer. Smooths his hand over her back and sways with her.

"Bad time of year," he says simply. "I'm sorry, Kate."

It should surprise her that he remembers. It should surprise her and it _shouldn't_ surprise her at all. It's been there between them for years. Since the first time he hurt her. The first time she forgave him.

It's there between them. Like it's always been there between her and everything. And she thinks her mother would roll her eyes about it. About the fact that she's still—_still_—putting her life on hold. That she's still not over it.

Kate makes . . . something. Not a decision. A leap.

"Castle, do you want to . . . can we go? Somewhere?"

He's going to say yes. She can see the word on his lips when he's suddenly jerked back. Away from her like a bad movie special effect.

* * *

He doesn't know how it happened. Doesn't know any more than he has the faintest idea what to do. If there were a sword handy, he'd fall on it. Because she's _crying_.

And then she's laughing and he thinks that he must be losing his mind. That he's snapped right there on the dance floor and is making up some reality on the fly. Something that might not kill him.

But no, she's laughing. Blushing, shy, and pretty and taking back her own tears with a shaky, breathless caress of his cheek, and what the _hell _ is going on?

She tells him she's a mess, and he wants to contradict her. He wants to tell her that she's strong. And she is. That she's brave. And she is. But she is also a mess. They are a mess, and he can't believe that he's pushed her like this.

She says it's just the song and leans into him and it would be so easy to just carry on. She wants this from him. Comfort and this night.

But he stops her. Palms against her shoulders and an awful moment when she is a rigid length of embarrassment because she thinks he's telling her no and _God _could he screw this up any more thoroughly? He could. He could by letting her go on thinking it.

He speaks. Quickly, he speaks, "Is that all? Just a sad song?"

It sweeps out of her in a wave. The bad feeling. The uncertainty. And there's nothing but this incredible solidity left behind. Recognition of what this is. What it will always be between them.

"Yeah. Yes," she says and keeps her eyes on his. Lets him feel the weight of her hand along his jaw. "Just the song and . . ."

She looks away then, and he knows that look. It's not about him. It's not about them. It's so much bleaker than anything having to do entirely with them, and he's never really known how to help. Never really known what she might need from him when it comes to this.

"My mother loves it," he hears himself say and he thinks it's right. It surprises him, but he thinks it was the right thing to say. Or _a_ right thing to say, even though she looks surprised.

He thinks he's been too careful about this. That maybe he could be brave enough to blunder into the topic. Not wait for it to get so bad for her that it spills out in stories in the middle of the night. It's himself he's been protecting, not her. He doesn't like . . . he hates to be reminded of what he's done.

He can tell himself that he's being careful. Respecting her wishes, however belatedly. Letting her take the lead. But he hates to be reminded that he's the one who started all this.

When she finally speaks—finally puts it out there between them—he can't stand it any more. The space between them. However sensible it might be, he can't stand it. He wraps his arms around her and whispers in her ear, "Bad time of year. I'm sorry, Kate."

She's struggling. Not against him. Not exactly. She's spreading her hands against broad, flat expanses. His back. His chest. She's taking the comfort he's offering and he's thankful. But she's wrestling with something and he can't think what to do but wait.

She draws herself up and he waits for her to pull away. He's as prepared as he can be for the disappointment, the ache of being bereft of her. But she tilts her head back. Careful not to let go. If anything she's pressing closer. Closer. It's . . . distracting to say the least.

It's undoing him. He thinks that must be why he's hearing things. Because she absolutely cannot have said what he thinks she just said. She can't have.

But he's saying yes anyway. Dark and insistent and sudden, everything wells up in him and a yes is on his lips.

Something tears her away from him. Tears him away from her. And his first thought, crazed and sliding down his throat on a sharp diagonal, is of Jenny. That she's struck him dead for his treachery and he's going straight to hell.

Jenny is there. Between them all of a sudden, but it's Ryan's hand like a vice around his biceps.

"I'm sorry," Ryan is saying, and Jenny is nodding behind him. Mouthing the words, too.

Ryan's head snaps toward Beckett and he lets go of Castle. Jerks back like he's on a string. He runs a hand through his hair. He's white and his eyes are wide. He seems to realize what he's interrupting. How could he not?

But he goes on. "Aw . . . geeze. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Beckett. But we've got a problem. I need your help."

* * *

A/N: I AM SORRY! Please do not hit or yell for the cockblocking. (If you need something to help you recover, you should read Docnerd89's "Open Gates" series. There is Revengeance. Cockblocking revengeance.)


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry this took a little longer to get up than I wanted. Long, crappy week. One more chapter after this. Thank you so much for the reads and reviews and feedback and flails. As always, for Docnerd and ER.

Spoilers: Spoilers: Set During 'Till Death Do Us Part (4 x 11), but no real spoilers unless you literally know nothing about that episode

Series: In the TARDIS-verse, after "Calculation" and "Nighthawks" (which are concurrent with one another) and before "Unexpected Light." Other stories in the series are TARDIS: Time and Relative Dimension in Space, Maybe I'll Miss you, Stupid Mouth Shut, and Circle 'Round the Sun. Not a Dr. Who crossover, just a borrowed concept.

* * *

He wouldn't have written it this way. This . . . thing that derails them. It's too absurd. Too melodramatic. Too on the nose.

It's a crisis. Some cousin of Jenny's, recently separated and dealing with heavy duty emotional baggage. Seriously out of favor with the Duffy-O'Malley clan, but he and Jenny were close as kids, and she wanted him here. Wanted him to be a part of the day.

And then there's the woman. Grady or Grandy or something. New enough at the 12th that Castle doesn't really know her. Maybe not so new. Seems like Ryan has taken her under his wing, so maybe not so new.

Castle tilts his head in the general direction of the disaster waiting to happen and gives Kate a questioning look. She's concerned. Definitely concerned. _Not so new_.

"Good cop," she says tersely. "Good detective someday. If she lasts the night."

She might not. One dance turned into two, turned into a really bad idea. And neither of them can see it through the alcohol and the heavy weather of the occasion.

He's teetering on the edge of maudlin. She's walking a tightrope between ebullient and aggressive. And there are gossips and tattletales and whole factions of coworkers and relatives who'll be lining up to buy tickets to the main event if this goes on much longer.

It's a crisis, and there's no one else.

"Rooms. Can't we get them rooms?" Castle says. He knows he sounds more than a little desperate. Knows it and doesn't care. It's not a priority right now. If he can throw money at this, he will. A hefty tip and a discreet concierge and mission accomplished. "Separate rooms. Rooms far, far away from each other. With locks on the outside. And security guards."

"Place is booked solid," Ryan says as he runs a soothing hand over Jenny's shoulder.

"And Mickey's parents are staying here." Jenny is tearing up and it's killing all three of them. They were on the verge of saying their goodbyes and slipping away to the honeymoon suite. She takes a breath and steels herself. "It'll look bad if he can't make it home. It'll be . . . harder for him."

"Cab," Beckett says a little too loudly. She sounds a little desperate, too, and Castle gives her a sharp look. A twist of lips that would be a smile under other circumstances. He feels a spark of something perversely like hope. She wants out of this. Kate wants out of this, too.

At that exact moment, one of the cousin's feet goes out from under him. He staggers like a silent movie drunk, then miraculously rights himself. Grady or Grandy or whoever the hell she is lets out a shriek of obviously drunken laughter and clings to him.

Heads turn and Castle shifts position. Circles the wagons and uses his body to shield the scene from the rest of the dance floor.

There's no way they can put either of them in a cab alone. And there's no one else.

Jenny's family is out for obvious reasons. Toby got paged and Lanie and Esposito are conspicuously absent.

Ryan's college friend slipped away earlier, most likely on the spiked heels of Espo's cousin, and anyway, he's not really that kind of friend according to Ryan. Castle would like to be pleased that he, apparently, _is_ that kind of friend, but Kate is finally meeting his eyes and it's all he can do not to scream.

He's certain—everything in him is suddenly, profoundly certain—that this really is their moment, his and Kate's. That she's ready. That she wants to let him in. That he can be the man she deserves. That he won't fuck things up. Won't cling and barge in and drive her away. That he won't lose her. He's certain. It's their moment and it's slipping by like the last notes of this goddamned song.

Kate looks away.

Castle closes his eyes just for a second and wishes. He wishes.

"I have a car coming for me," he says finally. He looks at Kate again, but she's not looking back, and now he's getting nothing off her. Nothing. She's shutting down.

"I'll get him home," he adds, because apparently there's nothing else to say.

The color comes back into Ryan's cheeks immediately. He smiles wide and slaps Castle on the back hard enough for it to hurt. But everything hurts right now.

Jenny lets go her husband's hand and steps over to Castle. She raises up on her tip toes and he stoops helplessly.

"Thank you," Jenny says quietly as she kisses his cheek. "Thank you, Rick."

Castle just nods. He's glad—distantly glad—that he can do this for her. For her and Ryan. For his friends. Somewhere inside, he's glad. But he can't quite make himself move. Can't quite straighten his spine and get on with it.

"I'll take care of Grazia." Kate speaks and Castle snaps upright.

_Grazia, _he thinks inanely with a pang of guilt, _that's her name._ He remembers now. The three of them talking about her. How a couple of other uniforms in particular have been giving her a hard time for no good reason. Kate remembers what that's like.

He turns to her, but Kate shakes her head before he can open his mouth. Before he can offer some excuse—any excuse—to make it a joint effort. To keep her with him.

"We'll get a cab," she says. Shakes her head again. "It's not a good idea."

It's not a good idea. There's a smile underneath the words. A smile meant just for him and that makes it worse. _It's not a good idea._

No, he wouldn't have written it this way.

* * *

She can see how this is going to go right away. That there's no getting out of it. She'd like to scream. One part of her would like to scream.

She doesn't get the big family dynamics. Not really. But watching Jenny and Ryan and that bright joy that's surrounded them all day—seeing that fracture and dim—it hits her somewhere unfamiliar. Somewhere unexamined. Somewhere that might not have existed until two minutes ago when she asked and Castle was about to say yes. _He was about to say yes. _

It hits her and unleashes something fierce. Something protective. Protective of Ryan and Jenny and the wedding day they deserve. Protective of Castle. Of everything he hasn't been saying all these months. Everything she's terrified of hearing. Everything she needs to hear. Protective of them.

She sees the writing on the wall for Grazia, and it pisses her off. The more things change. . . . _Yeah._ One part of her would really like to scream.

The rest of her is icy and determined. On the job. There's no getting out of this, so they get through it as quickly as they can and then . . . and _then_.

She doesn't like the look on Castle's face one bit. It's a mixture of panic and second thoughts and someone kicked my puppy and she _will_ get them back to where they were a minute ago. She will.

No way out but through, and she needs her partner with her.

He's looking at Grazia a little strangely. He doesn't really know the younger woman, Kate realizes. Files that away. It's not like him. He's nosy and friendly and acts like he's the precinct Welcome Wagon. Except not lately. Except that Grazia transferred in last summer and . . . _well._ That's not how he is lately.

She falters. She wants to tilt the world on its axis. Their world. Back to where it was before . . . before Montgomery. Before the scar. His and hers. Theirs. It's staggering, everything she needs to do to fix this. But it starts with a leap.

Time to go to work. He's looking at her with a question. Wants to know what she needs from him. What she needs. The thought sends a blaze of heat through her, but not now. _Not now. _Time to go to work.

"Good cop. Good detective someday. If she lasts the night."

Castle nods absently. He's fidgeting. Wants to do something. Wants just as badly as she does to set the clock back. She wants to wrap herself around him, but not now. Not yet.

"Rooms." It's all she really hears him say.

Hope blooms. Dies just as quickly. Ryan is shaking his head and Jenny is looking apologetic and trying hard not to cry and if there were something that Kate could tackle or arrest or shoot to fix this, she'd do it in a heartbeat.

"Cab." She hears herself say it, but it sounds like it's coming from far away. Castle gives her a twisted little smile and _god_ she wants him. Wants this to be over. Wants them to make a clean get away. Wants him.

But circumstances and alcohol and bad judgment have other plans. Jenny's cousin is toppling over, then righting himself with the boneless grace of the well and truly drunk. Grazia's peal of laughter is drawing attention, but Castle is on it. He draws them all closer. A human shield. He covers with a laugh of his own. Loud and more than a little grim.

Their options are dwindling fast. She's not surprised that Lanie and Esposito are long gone. Envious, but not surprised. She steals a look at Castle and wishes it were that uncomplicated for them. Thinks maybe it should be. Maybe it is.

But this first. Lanie and Esposito are gone. Everyone worth considering is gone, and it's up to them.

She meets Castle's eyes and it almost knocks her back. It's all there. And it looks pretty fucking uncomplicated. He wants her. He loves her. He's sure.

She looks away. She has to. One moment more of that and she'd be on him, whoever's looking. Whoever's not. She'd be on him. But this first.

"I have a car coming for me."

She can feel him looking at her as he says it. Hears the resignation, the weariness. She wants to tell him no. _No. _That's not what she meant. She wants to explain that they just have to do _this_ first and then. _And then._

But it's like everything is moving too fast and too slow at the same time and she has to get it together because _this first_.

"I'll get him home," Castle says.

It's flat and matter of fact and it's killing her, but it does the trick.

The tension breaks. For Ryan and Jenny at least, and that's something. Jenny reaches up and up and kisses Castle's cheek and there's a moment. Something passes between them. He relaxes. He's not happy. Not happy at all, but something passes between them and he's . . . better. Just a little.

It's a moment that Kate doesn't understand and she's abruptly, wildly jealous. It should be hers, that moment. It should be theirs, but they're off kilter now. Out of step. It's going wrong.

She pushes the thought aside impatiently. This first. They just have to get through this first and then she'll fix it. She'll ask. Make him tell her. She'll fix it.

"I'll take care of Grazia." She doesn't like her own tone. She was going for determined, but it comes out sullen and now his face is falling. Like he's done something wrong. Like he's sorry.

She doesn't want him to be sorry. She wants him to get it. To be with her on this and get it over with and get on with them. With being _them. _

It's all going wrong. The panic is creeping in. She knows what he's going to suggest, and it's not going to get the job done.

She shakes her head and the look he gives her grabs her heart and twists, but they just have to _do _this.

"We'll get a cab." She smiles. Tries to smile, but she thinks he's too far gone to notice.

"It's not a good idea." It slips out. She's impatient and it slips out and Jesus _Christ, _what is wrong with her?

Castle turns away. Makes a move for Jenny's cousin.

It's all going wrong.

* * *

It takes a while to peel them apart. The cousin—Mickey—isn't a big man, but he's full of swagger and liquid courage. Castle tamps down an unfamiliar desire to use his size to his advantage. Just grab him in a bear hug and get this all over with.

Jenny is making more headway than anyone. She has her cousin by the hand and she's smiling bravely. Telling Grazia a story about them as kids. Kittens abandoned in a culvert and the two of them waiting and waiting for the news to show up and hail them as heroes.

It's working. Mickey is laughing. Quietly filling in details. It's a little sad, but it's better than the alternative. Better than he was five minutes ago. He's giving Grazia a rueful, uncertain look.

It's not working so much with her. Her good mood is souring rapidly and Castle sees that Beckett is right. She _is_ a good cop. She's terrifying.

But Kate is standing by, waiting for an opening. Waiting to get away. _It's not a good idea. _

He'd like to get away, too. It's dangerous to be this close to her. Even now. Especially now. Good idea or not—alone or in a crowd—it's there between them. That electricity. That want.

Which means she's right about his genius carpooling plan. It's not a good idea.

She's usually right. It's a depressing thought. He was sure. He thought he was sure.

Jenny says something, and his attention snaps back to the task at hand. Mickey looks dubious, but he's letting her lead him away. One foot in front of the other. Castle follows. Stops and turns to Kate, but she's got Grazia by the elbow.

She's facing away from him, but he knows the look on her face. The tone of her voice. The way she's rating the situation on a scale from one to ten. One is "big mistake" and ten is "bad idea."

He wonders what this is. This._ It's not a good idea. _Probably like an eleven or something.

He's trailing after them, Jenny and her cousin, but then he hears it. A laugh. A genuine laugh. He stops dead and turns back. Kate turns at the same moment.

Her eyes find his and the look she gives him. That _look._ And good idea or not, ready or not, sure or not, he can't believe that he doesn't have her up against a wall. Right now.

_It's not a good idea._ She mean this, right?_This? _But how can she? How can she when she's looking at him like that. She has to mean this. Or maybe . . .

"Rick, are you coming?" Jenny's voice is a little sharp. It's startling coming from her. He hears it and he knows it's not just about her cousin. It's about his promise.

It's just enough. Just barely enough for him to tear his eyes off Kate.

Barely enough for now.

It's not a good idea? Maybe a six.

* * *

Grazia is a good cop. Kate is supremely grateful for that right now. She can work with that. She _is_ working with that. She reads her the riot act, then sympathizes. Tells her they both know it's bullshit. It's nobody's business what she does outside the precinct, but Monday morning will come and it will matter. It's practically here and it _will _matter.

Grazia balks. Bristles and postures. But she's a good cop and the boss voice works. At least something is going right.

Kate tells her it's time for them to go. That they'll get a cab and get out of there. She laughs when Grazia asks if they can go get a drink.

A drink. It's the last thing any of them needs, but she thinks about Castle's glass chiming against hers. About the easy way he slipped his arm around her waist. She thinks about his lips. The delicious shock of them against her skin.

She laughs and turns. Finds his eyes like she always does. And the clock turns back. Her arms are around him and his fingers are drifting down her spine. He's kissing her tears away before she even feels them. He's saying yes.

She'd give anything to be able to go to him right now. To have her hands on him again.

He turns away. Sudden and reluctant all at once. Jenny is beckoning and there it is. Again. That something passing between them.

Castle draws his shoulders in. _Guilty. _He feels guilty. She's seen it often enough to know.

And the look he was giving her a minute ago. No guilt there. Nothing like it. Just want and heat and everything that's been building and building all night. Building for four years.

But it's there now. Guilt. Resolve. Resistance.

She wonders what the hell is going on. Makes a promise to herself that she'll find out. Before Monday comes, she'll find out.

But this first. It's time to get out of there. For all of them to get out of there.

And then she'll find out.

* * *

He sends Jenny on her way. Sends her and Ryan back into the hotel. They ask him if he's sure. They thank him again and again, and he just wants them to go. Wants a damned minute in the comparative peace and quiet of Mickey's intermittent mumbling and snoring to try to figure out what the hell he's doing. What the hell is going on.

They go. Finally, they go. And before they're through the doors they're too wrapped up in each other to do more than look back once. Jenny gives him a little wave and a soft smile and then she can't keep her eyes off Ryan a second longer. He's relieved and proud in a hollow sort of way that they're handling this. He and Kate are handling this and Jenny and Ryan will have their perfect wedding day. Their wedding night.

And that makes it all worth it, right?

Mickey's hogging the only bench in the hotel's turnaround driveway. Castle nudges him, gently at first, then harder. The doorman comes over and together they tug him off to one side.

"Is the cab light on?" Castle asks as he sinks down on the other side of the bench. "There'll be . . . someone will need one."

"Can't use it this time of night," he says. "I'll go call."

Castle gives him a smile of thanks and the doorman nods as he ducks inside.

He's alone now. _As good as_, he thinks as Mickey twitches in his sleep. Probably a good time to figure out . . . something. Figure out what's next anyway. What's next? He goes home, right? Gets Mickey safely tucked away in his own bed and goes home. Alone.

Because he's being careful. There's really nothing to figure out. It doesn't matter how Kate was looking at him. That he could practically feel her body moving against his. That she looked ready. She felt ready, but he remembers her tears. It's complicated. At best it's complicated. And anyway, it doesn't matter. Because he's being careful.

He's sitting here next to a living, breathing metaphor for what happens when you're not careful. _He _is _breathing, right?_ Castle pokes Mickey in the ribs. He snorts and twitches again.

There's something oddly soothing about it. All of it. The air is frigid, but it's quiet. New York quiet, anyway. Complete with a drunk. He closes his eyes and for the first time all night—the first time in a while—he doesn't feel like he's being pulled to pieces. He just feels quiet and grateful that he doesn't have to make any kind of life and death decision in the next five seconds.

It doesn't last. The door bangs open and Kate spills out, flushed and breathless.

It doesn't last.

* * *

Grazia has to go to the bathroom. Of _course_ she does.

Beckett gets her through the door and assures the younger woman that she'll be right outside. Assures. Warns. Whatever.

She leans against the counter and presses her overheated cheek against the cool marble of the wall. Listens for the sound of bone cracking against that same marble. For head injuries. Anything less and Grazia is on her own with her hose and foundation garments and the challenges that come with being drunk in a bathroom stall.

She's annoyed at the delay. Annoyed that it means losing sight of Castle and Jenny and whatever is up with the two of them. She doesn't like it. Doesn't like the fact that it's pulled him away from her. Snapped that connection, however briefly. She doesn't like it.

The stall door swings open. Slams against the wall and Kate jumps.

"How come it's ok for you?" Grazia stumbles toward Kate with her finger extended.

Kate sidesteps her, but just barely.

"Wash your hands," she snaps. "And pull your skirt out of your pantyhose."

"Fine." It starts out sullen, defiant, but then she's tearing up. "But why is it ok for you?"

Kate rolls her eyes. Maybe they should have switched, she and Castle. He's better with crying than she'll ever be. She sighs. Raises her voice over the sound of the faucet. "Why is what ok? Dry them . . . not on your skirt . . . fine. Whatever."

"I saw you," Grazia turns to her. She's a sad case. Her mascara's running and the dark blue silk of her dress is unlikely to survive the wet handprints. "The two of you."

Kate stills. Her heart stops for a second. Just an instant. She's afraid, but just for an instant. Then she's angry. "And?"

The ice in that syllable sobers Grazia just a little. She asks again anyway, but it's curious this time. Humble. It's a hard life and a lonely one and she just wants to know how to get through it. "How do you make it ok?"

Like she would know. Like Kate would know. The anger drains out of her.

"Look, Andrea . . . you're always going to have to try harder. Be more careful. Think twice about asking for help. That's just the way it is. It'll get better." She thinks about that. It does get better. If has gotten better. It can. If she lets it. "You'll find good people and they'll support you. But you're always going to have to try harder and be more careful."

Grazia gulps. Swallows hard and nods.

Kate nods back and moves for the door. Holds it open and gestures The other woman through.

Grazia is getting more unsteady on her feet by the minute. Her drooping eyelids light a fire under Beckett. She lives in a fourth floor walk-up and Kate doesn't relish the idea of having to coax a cabbie into helping drag her up the stairs.

Kate steadies her with a hand on her shoulder as Grazia finally sways across the threshold, then sways back at the last second. They're practically nose to nose.

"He's cute. Castle I mean. _Really _cute," Grazia confides in the world's loudest stage whisper. Her breath is truly foul.

"Shut up," Kate says. She bites back a smile and propels Grazia through the lobby.

It's almost midnight and the band is winding down. The precinct diehards will be spilling out and she'll be damned if they find Grazia here. Not like this. Not after everything.

They make it to the glass-fronted entrance and she sees him. Quiet and troubled and waiting.

She can't stand it. Can't stand to be away from him another second. They'll wait together.

She jerks Grazia through the door.

She goes to him.

* * *

He's on his feet in a second. He takes Grazia's other elbow and they both stand there at a loss. She's drunk. Drunker than she was even five minutes ago and how does that even work?

Grazia won't be on her feet for long, but there's only one bench and plopping her down next to Mickey seems . . . counterproductive.

They look at each other over Grazia's head for a long moment. There's something they're supposed to be doing or something they're not supposed to be doing. Or something.

But she's watching him. Kate's watching him with that determined look that means she won't stop until she gets what she wants. And whatever she wants, it won't be good for him. One way or another, it won't be good for him.

She's about to say something, and he's suddenly terrified. What if she asks again? What if she _asks?_

Castle opens his mouth to head her off. Fill the silence with god knows what. The doorman saves him. Saves him and destroys him with a handful of words.

"Cab's on its way, sir." He's leaning out the door. Shivering.

"Thanks." Castle waves him back inside where it's warm. "We've got this."

The doorman touches his cap and pulls the door tight.

Castle's gaze skitters away from Kate's. He's nervous all over again.

"I think Mickey's out if you . . ."

"Castle."

It's quiet. Just his name. But it jolts through him. If she asks again, he won't be able to say anything but yes. Promise or no promise. Careful or not. If she asks again it's over.

His eyes close and open and she's watching him. Again. Still. But she's not as sure as was. Not as hell bent. That's no good for him either. He wants to offer her anything. Everything.

"Kate."

The cab pulls up then. A beep and they're stepping guiltily back from one another, Grazia swaying between them. The doorman sticks his head out the door again and hisses something at the cabbie. The cabbie flips him off. He doesn't get out of the driver's seat.

Castle frowns, "Maybe you should take the car."

She's shaking her head though, and he feels a twinge of annoyance. Everything is a struggle all of a sudden and he's tired of it. He's tired.

But then she reaches out. Brushes her fingers over the back of the hand wrapped around Grazia's elbow. Waits for him to look at her. He does. And she's not any happier than he is. She nods toward the lobby. It's filled up with knots of guests in the last few minutes. It must be midnight.

"Thanks, Castle, but that doesn't . . . it won't look good."

He nods. _Fuck_. Even if he shoves Mickey in the back of this asshole's cab, it won't look good. And that's the point, right? The whole fucking point.

The car glides up just then and Jeff steps out. Castle breathes a sigh of relief. He's a big guy and not one of the drivers who'll talk his ear off.

The cabbie taps his horn again. Draws the attention of every single person in the lobby. Castle's about to lose it, but Jeff is on the job.

He gestures to the bench "This is the gentleman?"

Castle nods, "Can you . . .?"

"Not a problem, Mr. Castle."

Kate flashes the driver a smile and Jeff blushes to the tips of his ears. It's the first time Castle has ever seen the man's professional demeanor flicker for so much as a second. He knows the feeling.

"Give me a hand, Castle?"

He jerks his chin up and down. Close enough to a nod. He can't trust his voice right now. He knows the feeling.

Their movement stirs Grazia a little. She's taking a few steps on her own and it's a miracle. Sour faces are turning away from the glass. They were looking for a show and didn't get it. At least there's that. They didn't get it.

Grazia is even able—mostly able—to clamber into the back of the cab by herself. It's not graceful and Castle didn't need to know that much about her underwear, but she's in and pretty much upright and seat belted.

Castle goes around to the driver's side. Bangs his fist against the window and sticks his head inside. He stuffs a generous handful of bills into the cabbie's hand and makes some pointed suggestions about how helpful and careful and generally attentive he'll want to be to his passengers and anything they might need.

He glances over his shoulder and sees Jeff closing the back door. He gives Castle a firm nod and slips behind the wheel to wait.

Kate's standing on the other side of the car, one hand on the roof of the cab, the other curled over the top of the open door. The turnaround is all sickly shadows and orange sodium lights and she's beautiful. Beautiful and dangerous.

He keeps the cab between them. Starts to tell her to call if she needs anything and realizes what that sounds like. He stops and the moments tick by and he feels like he's drowning.

"Good night, Kate." It's all he can come up with. "Home safe."

He's going. He's three steps past the cab's back bumper when her hands are on him. She stops him dead. Pulls him with her into the shadows.

* * *

This should be safe. Him and her in the freezing cold. One drunk propped up between them and another lolling on a bench. It should be safe under the circumstances.

But she wants him. She wants to slip underneath his arm and hold her to him. She wants him to stop looking so fucking confused. She wants him to be sure like he was ten minutes ago. Twenty minutes ago. All night. She wants him to be sure again.

Her eyes meet his, and for a long minute it's enough. It's enough. He's not confused anymore. Terrified maybe, but that's better. And probably . . . apt.

She's about to ask . . . she doesn't know what. About Jenny? About what's next? Whatever it is, it's on the tip of her tongue, and his eyes go wide. He's a different kind of terrified now, and she wants to know what the hell is going on.

The doorman cuts in before either of them can say anything. There's a cab on the way. _Oh. Right._ She didn't think to ask, but he did. Of course he did. She feels a surge of gratitude. Warmth. It's a stupid thing she should have thought of, but she feels lucky. She _is_ lucky.

He's saying something. Filling the silence with small talk. Logistics. Anything but them and _this_ and everything that's happened tonight. Everything that hasn't happened. Yet. _Yet. _

"Castle." She's surprised to hear herself say it.

Not as surprised as he is. He shudders like she's touched him. Like her hands are on him again. She feels it, too, but then he closes his eyes and it's gone. It's gone.

He closes his eyes. Opens them again and looks at her. He's giving in. Surrendering. And it's not what she wants.

"Kate."

She's hanging on the lone syllable of her name. Waiting. Waiting for him.

A horn blares and she flinches away. He flinches away and . . . _Oh. Right. _

There's something going on, but she misses it. Something about the cabbie and now Castle is saying something about the car. That she should take the car. She's startled for a minute. She thinks . . . she _thought._ But he just means that they'll swap.

She shakes her head and he stiffens. He clenches his jaw, and she can't _stand_ it. Can't stand how hard this all is. The stupid details of saving someone else's ass and this. All _this_. She wants it to be easy. She reaches for him. Just an instant of contact and he calms.

She watches him. Waits for him to look up. Notes absently that the lobby is suddenly bustling. He follows her gaze and he gets it. He gets it, but she wants to say something anyway. Wants him to know that she's lucky. She knows she's lucky and it's just this stupid thing.

"Thanks, Castle, but that doesn't . . . it won't look good."

The other car arrives then, and Castle heaves a sigh. Mostly relieved. Mostly. He and the driver have a conversation.

She doesn't follow it, but she hears the driver say "No problem." She can feel just a little more of the tension bleeding out of Castle and she's grateful. She smiles at him and he ducks his head shyly.

"Give me a hand, Castle?" Her voice is low. Smoky. She's tired and can't keep the wanting out of it and who cares anyway. At this point, who cares?

Something finally goes their way. The cold or the conversation or the two of them shuffling on either side of her. Something rouses Grazia just a little and she's doing a passable impression of a grown woman in control of her life. And just in time. The vultures are at the window. Turning away now.

Kate helps Grazia into the back seat of the cab. Mostly provides a blind because the younger woman is insisting that she's fine even when she kneels on the front of her skirt and the back flips up to her waist. Rainbow french cut briefs. Great.

Castle strides over to the cabbie's window and shoves his head inside. Kate can't hear much. Just enough to wonder if she'll end up having to pull Castle off him. If the cabbie is really that stupid.

She's still wondering when Castle backs out of the window and straightens. He stops on the verge of saying something. Stops and stares with absolutely naked longing. She holds her breath, but it's over already.

He's inching sideways. Starts to say something. Starts to say something else. Reaches the end of the cab. The end of five feet of metal and fiberglass between them and he stops again.

"Good night, Kate. Home safe." It's quiet. Careful.

It's a lie. A total fucking lie, and she's not having it.

She's around the back of the car in two strides. She's pulling him back and back. There's a dark, hollow space. She falls back into a pool of shadows and pulls him in with her.

Her shoulder blades meet a concrete pillar and the two of them collide. She tips her head back and she's kissing him. Her fingers curl under his jaw and her thumbs slide over his cheekbones. She's kissing him and then he's kissing her and she laughs. She's weak with relief and he's kissing her.

It's different. He's kissed her before. She's kissed him. But this is a moment alone. Hot and slow after the rush of everything. Teasing and full of promise. Determination. But it's a moment alone and it can't go on forever. They stop. Not all at once, but it tapers off.

He says her name and she says his. Kisses him one more time and looks up at him. He's terrified and she thinks that's ok. That it feels just about right. Just about right for now.

"Thank you, Castle," she says as she slides her arms around his neck and holds him. Just holds him. "Thank you for being my plus one."

She unwinds her arms. Hesitates a moment, then tears herself away. This first and _then._

She slips into the cab and pulls the door closed.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Uh . . . so it turns out this is 6 chapters, but please do not hit or yell. I'm posting 5 and 6 simultaneously so it'll be complete tonight. Chapter 5 turned out to be long long long even for me, and there was a natural break point. This chapter, especially, draws a little more directly on "Calculation" and "Nighthawks," than is typical in my TARDIS-verse stuff. If you feel lost, you might want to read those.

Thank you to everyone who stuck with this. I know that it took longer than I promised and I so appreciate the reviews and feedback. As always, for Docnerd89 and ER.

Spoilers: Spoilers: Set During 'Till Death Do Us Part (4 x 11), but no real spoilers unless you literally know nothing about that episode

Series: In the TARDIS-verse, after "Calculation" and "Nighthawks" (which are concurrent with one another) and before "Unexpected Light." Other stories in the series are TARDIS: Time and Relative Dimension in Space, Maybe I'll Miss you, Stupid Mouth Shut, and Circle 'Round the Sun. Not a Dr. Who crossover, just a borrowed concept.

* * *

It's a good ending. That's what Castle tells himself. That it's something he would have written.

It is.

A moment. Closer to perfect than he probably deserves. Than he'll ever deserve. A moment—a hundred heartbeats borrowed from the future. Borrowed from that someday when she's ready. From when they're in this. And on either side of it, like bookends, her certainty. Her choice. Giving and taking what she _is _ready for tonight. Sure, steady hands bringing him to her and fixing the two of them in time and space. Letting go (_for now . . . just for now_). It's a good ending.

He tells himself that he's not waiting.

It's not the same thing. Remembering. Savoring. Reliving. It's not the same thing as waiting, because how could he forget? How can he _not _ remember? Kate's fingers skimming along his jaw. Her palm coaxing a shiver up and out him and all over his body. All over her body. All of them. Head to toe.

How can he forget her lips finding his again and again? Straying to his temple, to his chin. To the electrified sweep of skin under his ear that he's pretty sure she invented just then. Just there. Pressing just there and wandering home again. His lips finding hers.

The aftershocks of want flicker through him, and how can he think about anything else right now? He know's it's a good ending. Remembering that doesn't mean he's waiting.

The upside down city glides by in the black oblong of the car window. For once, it glides by, and everything feels light and easy in the rare stillness. No fits and starts of real time. Real life. Sunday bleeds unconcerned into Monday and it everything feels possible. Eventual. Inevitable.

He absently enjoys the tension of the undulating heat of memory and cool glass against his skin. He's pleasantly tired. Distantly grateful to Jeff who is no less than a hero for helping him with Mickey. Water, Tylenol, sloppy apologies and all the rest. Locking the door behind them and offering to bring the keys by in the morning.

Castle reaches up to loosen his tie. Finds the knot a few emphatic inches lower than it ought to be and remembers again.

Remembers laughing against her forehead, his lips smoothing over the sudden furrow of annoyance when it wouldn't give way. Remembers the strange, out-of-body urge to talk. To tell her that it's some fancy knot—a Cavendish or something like that. Ryan had insisted. Demonstrated it over and over. YouTube videos and tortured metaphors about groundhogs, not rabbits. He and Esposito had teased him mercilessly, but Ryan hadn't noticed through his bulletproof happiness.

He remembers the words gathering on his tongue and evaporating. Remembers how they dissolved into something between a prayer and a whimper. A plea as she conquered it, that knot. Of course she conquered it. Slid it down and down with decisive tugs and made short work of his top two buttons. Pressed her fingers into the notch between his collarbones, the heel of her hand a heavy counterweight to the rise and fall of his ribs.

He remembers her head tipping back into his waiting palms. His mouth on hers and the sharp flare of clarity between them. That this is where this goes. Where they end up someday. It's a good ending. Better than good.

He tells himself he's not waiting.

* * *

Everything moves too slowly. The cab. The cabbie. Grazia. Her. It all moves too slowly. Time has that agonizing Monday inertia. She hasn't decided what comes next, but something . . . _something_. And she wants it. She _wants_ it.

But there are detours and grown human beings, still breathing at this late date, who seem to have no grasp of turn arrows, and the cab is stopped again. Trapped on the wrong side of a stoplight. They idle as the cabbie drones into his phone and the radio crackles often enough to keep Kate on edge.

At least Grazia is done. That, at least, is over. Not before tears and recriminations and a lot more help getting Grazia out of her wedding finery and into bed than Beckett had counted on. Not before a fiercely whispered hallway argument with the cabbie when he tried to bail.

They're working their way back to lower Manhattan now, finally, but it's all too slow.

She's not nervous. That's not what the quick trip of her pulse is about. Not why her skin feels alive and electric. It's about memory. About wanting and having and wanting again. It's about the fact that he never hesitates when she reaches for him. Not for an instant. And it's more than just his sure hands holding her up and making more of her. With her. Calling up sighs and satisfaction and the kind of need she'd forgotten she had in her. It's not just that.

It's the memory of his voice when he talks about her. When he doesn't talk about her. When he doesn't know she's listening and it's still all there. Everything between them. It's the way he's careful and not careful. The way he never says, but he's always telling. Her. Anyone who bothers to look. The world. It's the fact that he loves her. That he never says it and he's always saying it.

She's not nervous. She's . . . ready. Eager to get back to him. To take this day and all its moments and make something of it. Eager for them to make something of it. To make more of each other. Impatient, not nervous. She's not nervous.

She leans her head against the seat. Tips her chin high and stares up through the back window of the cab. A long string of streetlights stretching like an amber thread behind her. She lays her hand over the evening bag on the seat next to her and reassures herself that it's there. It'll be there when she needs it. Soon. _Soon_.

They're close now. Finally they're at Houston. Out of the clogged streets and construction of the East Village and clipping along. Finally. Lights turn yellow just after they pass under them. Pedestrians here and there, even at this hour. It is New York after all, but they step back on to the curb just as the cab eases into the intersection. It's like the city is dancing. Like they're all dancing. Her pulse leaps up another notch and another.

"Take Broadway." She hears herself say it and finds her phone in her hand before she can even make sense of the words.

She sees the cabbie's eyes narrow in the rearview mirror. Sees him open his mouth and close it again when she repeats "Broadway" and points emphatically to the left.

The cabbie shakes his head and just makes the light.

She thumbs the phone on and stops. Something superstitious takes hold of her and she shoves it back into her bag. Snaps the clasp with a vehement twist and folds her hands in her lap.

She _is _nervous now and there's no sense denying it. Her hands are shaking and she watches, fascinated, as the blood thumps under the paper-thin skin of her wrist.

"Here." Her voice cracks and the cabbie lets off the accelerator, but doesn't stop.

"_Here,_" she repeats and it's her boss voice this time. The voice that got Grazia up the stairs mostly under her own power. Convinced her that she _would _regret it if she fell into bed without brushing her teeth.

Kate jerks forward and back as the cabbie stomps on the brakes.

"This isn't . . ." he begins petulantly, but she cuts him off with a sharp gesture.

"How much," she asks shortly. The meter isn't running. She hadn't noticed.

"It's taken care of," the cabbie mumbles. Doesn't meet her eyes. "But this isn't where . . ."

"Fine," she cuts him off again. Feeds a few bills through the plexiglass anyway. He takes them and then she's out of the cab, finally. _Finally. _

Her pulse is quick and she can feel the color in her cheeks. She's nervous. She's eager. She wants him. Wants to see him right now. She has one hand on the door, the other deftly navigates to her text messages.

The door is open an inch and the sounds of the diner greet her. It all washes over her. The clash of silverware in the busboy's tub. The incredible smells wafting out from the kitchen. The precise note of cup meeting saucer and the buzz of the neon sign in the window. Everything—every single piece of information flooding her senses—reminds her of him.

It hits her at once. A wave of absolute longing for him and this can't happen fast enough. He can't get here soon enough. Her thumb hovers over her phone. She finds his name and she feels the corners of her mouth twitching up.

"_Ow!_"

Kate's eyes flick to the interior of the diner. It's just part of the background. A couple teasing each other. Leaning in to whisper. Leaning back to laugh. Daring each other.

Kate smiles wider. A little annoyed because they're distracting her and she wants him now . . . _Now . . . _but she's charmed, too. It's been a long time since she had anything to say to people in love. Her pulse jumps again at the word. _Now. _

In the next second—in the next breath—everything crashes to a halt. Stops absolutely and she isn't sure if she's about to scream or cry or blow the whole place to hell. She stops.

"Javier Esposito, I _told _you. Keep that hand off my bacon if you don't want to lose it."

* * *

"It's fine, sweetie." Castle awkwardly presses the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he deals with the door to the loft.

"_Are you sure? I mean Gram's pretty tired. But I have a late start at school tomorrow, so we could . . . ." _

"Don't you want to take the day off?"

"_Dad!" _

"Fine. Be responsible. Get your rest in five-star luxury and put your grandmother in a cab in the morning. Does she have her sunglasses? The dark ones, I mean."

He smiles as he roams around the loft. Sets down his keys and works his cufflinks free as he listens to her tell a funny story. He smiles hard at the sound of her voice. She's happy. So much happier than she's been in months and he thinks he should feel guilty that it's only now—now when the joy is back—that he realizes how much of it has been missing. Realizes that these past few months haven't just been hard for him.

But he can't bring himself to it. The guilt. Not tonight when he's still topped up with happy nervous energy from everything. Not when he can hear her his daughter's smile. Picture her eyes lighting up electric blue with uncomplicated joy.

She sounds like Jenny. Castle's smile dims a little at the thought. He's not ready for her to be happy like that. He doesn't think she is. It's just a new boy. A first date and a night like no other. It's just . . . resilience and she's only 17 and he's not _ready _for that.

"_Dad?" _

"Hmm?" He shakes himself. He missed whatever she was saying.

"_The wedding?" _She prompts. _"How was it?" _

He thinks a minute. He's at a loss for words as he thinks about Kate's arms looping around his neck. About her humming in his ear. Her eager breath in the half moment after she asked. The half moment before he could answer. Everything that comes to mind is too dangerous to say. Too dangerous.

"Lovely," he says, finally. "Just lovely."

She asks for a story and he picks a safe one. He's careful. Stays away from redheads and rescue missions and Peggy Lee. She laughs and prompts, but she's drifting off.

"Gonna let you go, sweetie," he says softly. "Love you."

"_Love you, too,"_ she replies, her voice soft with sleep. _"Glad you stayed out of trouble." _

He hangs up and tells himself he's glad, too. He's glad he kept his promise. He's glad he was careful.

He's in the bedroom somehow. Sets the phone on the dresser and empties his pockets. Wallet. A cocktail napkin he never quite got rid of. A safety pin he doesn't remember having. He lays them out in a line and doesn't think about his phone. Doesn't touch it. Doesn't let himself wonder if . . . whether or not_ . . . when. _

He doesn't let himself wonder. He's not waiting.

He turns his back to the dresser. Slides his suit jacket on to the hanger and hooks it over the closet it door.

He tugs at his tie a little helplessly. He's trying to remember what, exactly, the groundhog does. Trying to reverse its course, but her scent wafts up from the cool, smooth fabric and he's lost. So lost.

It's not perfume, though she wore a little tonight. Just a little. But this is soap and neatly trimmed nails, no polish. Nearness and the light scent of almonds.

He fingers the knot and his head falls forward. His chin tips between the wings of his shirt collar and his hands feel empty. He's lost. He ignores the dull edge of longing scraping over his ribs. Makes his hands work. Finally gets the best of the tie and lays it gently on the dresser. Smooths his fingers over it. End to end. He doesn't pick up his phone.

The shirt demands his attention next and he tells himself he can do this. He can do this. Just buttons, not studs, and he's grateful for it. Doesn't think he could manage right now with his shaking hands and no focus to speak of. He works them open, one by one and has to sit down.

He sinks on to the edge of the bed. Pries off his shoes and kicks them across the room, one after the other. He tells himself he's tired, that's all. Really tired all of a sudden.

He'd planned on writing a little. Assumed he'd need the release. Need to lose himself in something safe. Safer than the dark space around him and the undiminished memory of her kissing him.

But maybe he'll actually sleep. Even with everything, he might sleep. He falls back against the pillows. Doesn't bother to finish the last of the buttons. His eyes close and he knows immediately that sleep won't come. Not soon anyway. Not with memories crowding in. Rolling over him in waves.

_Not waiting. Not waiting. Not waiting. _

It's a silent chant. He breathes out and in on it. Finds its time signature and hangs on.

The phone chimes on the dresser.

* * *

She shuts the door with what she hopes is a muffled thump and presses herself out of the way. _What the hell are _they _doing here? _she wonders. She waits a dozen shallow breaths and risks a sidelong glance through the glass door.

Javi has slipped around the table to crowd in on Lanie's side of the booth. She's wearing one of his shirts and her hair is a wreck. The pretty little twist from earlier is drooping low and her long earrings are incongruous, brushing against the heather gray of the oversized, stretched out cotton.

She looks beautiful.

Esposito's arm is around her. He tries out a smoldering look, and Lanie lets him think she's buying it. Leans into him, and then her hand snakes out, lightning fast, and stops his half an inch away from the plate. His face falls. Lights up a again when Lanie breaks off a piece of bacon and feeds it to him. He kisses her. Smiling and teasing at first, but not for long.

Kate feels a jet of something rising in her and she wishes it were simpler. She's happy for them. So happy. But she's jealous, too. Jealous that it _is_ simple for them. Part of her knows that's not fair, but most of her doesn't fucking care about fair right now. It's simpler anyway. Simpler for them.

It's not simple for her. Nothing is. Even this. _This._ It had seemed so right, coming here. It's a good place for them. One of the best. She's been brave here and he's been kind and unguarded and not so careful with her. Bolder. She's asked him hard questions here and he's answered in riddles. Set her a puzzle to solve and she solved it on her own doorstep. His lips on hers enough times that she needed her toes to count.

And now _they're_ here and it's not simple. It all goes up in smoke.

The world is blurry all of a sudden. She steps back from the door and ignores it. Refuses to acknowledge the tears gathering on her lashes. Her feet are moving and it takes her half a block and a little more to register that she's going to the wrong way.

To register that she's not. She's _not_. It's a six-minute walk. Less tonight, she thinks. Less. Her heels ring out sharply on the pavement.

Time is moving now. She's moving. Two blocks now. Almost three.

Her phone is in her hand. Still in her hand. She lights it up again. Punches in the code to unlock and calls up the back and forth between them. Grins widely at his last message. _Y! _

She thinks about punctuation. Taps it out and hits send: _Time out!_

* * *

He doesn't spring up out of bed. Doesn't launch himself across the room and have the phone in his hand before his feet hit the floor. It's the kind of thing he does. It's the kind of thing he usually does when it comes to her and him in the middle of the night.

But he's paralyzed.

He won't get out of it alive this time. Once. Twice. The universe saved him. Saved them. But three times? He's on his own.

He's paralyzed. The phone chimes again and there's no way it should be able to sound impatient, but it does. Judgmental.

It chimes a third time and he does spring up. Maybe it's not even her. It could be Alexis or Connelly. It could be a body. Except it's absolutely not. He knows it's not. It's her and and it's _this_ and he doesn't know what to do.

His hand falls on the phone. He calms abruptly. This is easy. _Easy, _actually. She's not ready, and in the middle of the night, she doesn't have to be. They don't have to be. That's the whole point.

She asks and he answers and they meet. That's all. They'll meet like they have a dozen times before and he'll keep the wide world between him and trouble. He'll be careful. It's the perfect way to be careful.

He flips the phone over and smiles. Stops dead when he sees it: _Time out! _Seven letters and something new. It's not a mistake. It never is. She's _always _careful. He's the one that told her that. Gave her a mystery of her very own and solved it by her side with a dozen kisses on her doorstep.

It's not a mistake. He gets that. But just in case he doesn't, there's a knock on the door. Not loud, but not at all tentative. An exclamation point. Another exclamation point.

He's at the door when the knock comes again. He has a last, desperate hope that it's not what he thinks. That Alexis and his mother decided against the hotel. That neither of them has their key. That it's not her.

It's her. Of course it's her.

And if she's not ready, she's doing a stunning imitation of someone who is.

He's in trouble. He's in serious trouble.

She doesn't wait for him to ask her in. Not long anyway. She smiles and says his name and steps over the threshold.

Some demented sense of politeness—some distant memory of manners—has him stepping back and holding his arm out to gesture her in.

He hears himself talking. Feels his lips moving. Jaw opening and closing. Larynx bobbing up and down.

Did he offer her a drink? That's what he should do, right? That's what one does? Even when it's a terrible idea. It's _all _a terrible idea. There are no good ideas in this house tonight.

"Castle," she says his name again and he looks at her helplessly.

She reaches for him and he doesn't pull back. He thinks he should. Something tells him he should, but he doesn't pull back.

She catches one sleeve, then the other. Worries the fabric between her fingers a minute. She frowns, then looks down with a little grin and he wonders . . . _oh. Oh. _French cuffs. No buttons. She has a thing about his buttons. The unfortunate phrasing tilts him further on his axis. He won't get out of this alive

She's still looking down. Still has that little grin perched on her lips when she lets his sleeves go. Slides both her hands across his wrists and over his palms to snag his fingers. She tilts her chin up and he follows. Can't help but follow.

Their eyes meet and there's a moment where it could go either way. Where he could step back from this. Just a moment, and then it's gone. She tugs their joined hands downward. Tugs on one set of knotted fingers, then the other, and closes the distance—the precious little distance between them.

She says his name again and he kisses her.

* * *

He's kissing her. Thank _God_, he's kissing her. There was a moment—a terrible moment—when she thought he might turn her away. But he's kissing her now, and it's long gone. Like something someone told her once, a long time ago.

He's kissing her and she sways against him. It's awkward like this, arms stiff at their sides, but she's spent so much time not doing this. So much time hanging on to his elbow, twirling buttons with timid fingers. And now she can't stop. She can't stop holding his hands.

He stops holding hers, though. One, then the other. Gives her fingers a squeeze and trails his fingers over her wrists. Gentle circles there and long, bold strokes up and up. His fingertips trace along the edges of her sleeves. Back and forth before darting underneath, and she thinks she might jump out of her skin.

She reaches for his shoulders, the need to anchor herself sudden and imperative. But her hands find bare skin and it's his turn to gasp. His shirt is gaping open and how has it taken her this long to notice that? She makes up for lost time. Drags the backs of her fingernails along the rough path of his collarbones. Pushes the fabric on ahead and all but off his shoulders.

He breaks the kiss. Curls his palms behind her biceps and makes a beeline for her neck. Opens his mouth on her name and drags the blunt edge of his teeth along the convexity of her shoulder. Presses a chain of kisses carefully—carefully—all along her neckline, just where her skin gives way to fabric.

It leaves her own lips free and that spells trouble. "Castle, I . . ."

She doesn't even know what she'd been about to say, but it scares her somehow. She buries her hands in his hair. Presses her lips against the relative safety of his skin. His cheekbone. His jaw. But she's still saying it. His name, over and over. A pronoun here and there and something else. She doesn't know what. She doesn't know.

He hears it, whatever it is, and surfaces. Raises his head and kisses her lips again. Soft and questioning now.

"Kate," he says against her lips. Kisses her again like he can't help himself. Like he's trying to.

She doesn't want him to. She doesn't want that. She grabs his shoulders and kisses him hard. Teases the corner of his mouth with the tip of her tongue and dives in when his lips part in helpless surprise. _Good_, she thinks. _Good. _

His hands find her shoulder blades. The back of her neck. Her ribs. Her waist. Every place they land brings them closer. Closer.

She pushes the shirt from his shoulders chases it down his arms and makes a frustrated noise when it doesn't fall away. Her hands are on the case, though, and she finds the problem. The last two buttons. The last of them. Her fingers find purchase, and a laugh bubbles up in her. She has a thing about his buttons. She slips each one free and the shirt does fall away this time. She slips her arms around his waist. Steps into him. Closer. Even closer.

Her fingers have a mind of their own. They're tracing strange paths over his lower back. Stopping here and there to knead, press, explore. His breath is coming faster and she's pleased with herself. Fiercely glad that he's given up on the idea of either one of them helping themselves.

Even as she thinks it, he stops. Tears his mouth from hers and his hands are on her shoulders again.

"Kate." His eyes are closed and his breath is jagged and hot in her ear. "Kate."

She shushes him. Lifts her hand from his back, slow and deliberate. She rests her palm along his cheek and runs soothing fingers through the hair at his temple. She waits for him to open his eyes. For him to look at her. He does, finally. Finally opens his eyes and he's terrified. He's terrified and she can't stand it.

She shushes him again. Kisses him. Not so frantic now. It's an effort because she _wants _him. She wants him and that seems very simple right now. But he's shaking. Each breath is an effort, and he's shaking, and she wants him to know how simple it is.

Their tongues touch and she runs her thumb along his cheekbone. Wills him to remember what it's like. What it's been like all night. Since she stepped into his arms and his hand landed on her waist. What it was like when he gave in and held her. She wants him to know that there was no other way this night could've ended. No other way it should end.

Her head tips back and his hands are there. There's . . . something. Something about the angle or the taste or the sudden friction between them, but just like that, he's on board.

His fingers grasp at her hair. Lift it out of the way. They drag it over her shoulder and hold it against her neck. His other hand is on a mission. Strong, unhesitant fingers travel down her spine. Heavy. Deliberate. Curling now. Curling to bring his nails to bear on the teeth of the zipper. She stills. Expects him to. Expects him to jerk away, but he doesn't. He's reminding her.

She nods. Breaks their kiss for just an instant and nods. Something like a yes is on her lips, but it's lost against his.

He's slow about it. Agonizingly slow. A millimeter at a time. Less. Each tick of the zipper's teeth punctuated by another kiss. By a nip at her lips. His mouth opening along her jaw. A flick of his tongue against her ear.

She feels lightheaded and steely and sure all at once. Finally—_finally_—his fingers dip beneath the open zipper and he touches her skin. Spreads his palm wide and heavy against her, like he can't touch enough of her at once.

Sure or not, it rocks her back. The heat of his skin on hers makes her sway, and she stumbles. The stiff, narrow skirt complicates things, and he does jerk back then. Drops his arm to catch her waist. She laughs and leans against him. Lifts one foot and kisses him as she works her foot free from her shoe. Lays a heavy hand on the other shoulder and sheds the other one.

She drops back on her heels and smiles, delighted by the expanse of bare chest suddenly level with her lips. She can't resist. She presses a kiss to his sternum. Nips at the prominence of his collar bone. He makes an odd noise, and she tilts her head to the side.

Not a noise. Her name. Words. A wicked smile dies on her lips.

He looks broken. Absolutely desolate. His hands fall away from her. He steps back.

"Kate, I can't." He runs one hand through his hair. Scratches his arm with the other like he's desperate to keep them busy. Keep them off her. He takes another step back. His hands meet the counter and he hangs on with a white-knuckled grip. "I can't."

"Castle." It's all she can manage. She can't do words right now, and she thinks if she could just touch him, he'd know it's ok. It's all ok.

She takes a step toward him and he flinches. Actually flinches and the words come tumbling out of him. He doesn't want to say it. Every line of his body, the flash of pain in his eyes, they all tell her that he doesn't want to say a single thing. Not a single word. But they tumble out anyway.

"Kate, I can't. You're not . . . we're not . . ."

He looks her in the eye. He does that at least. Swallows hard and says it. "I promised I'd be careful."

She stares at him a minute. Time slows down again and it hurts. It's awful. It takes her a million years to turn her back and make it to the door, but she does. She does.

She goes.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: See? There is no reason for hitting or yelling, because here is the last chapter. Again, I thank you all for your kind words and your constructive criticism and for reading at all.

As always, for Docnerd89 and ER.

Spoilers: Spoilers: Set During 'Till Death Do Us Part (4 x 11), but no real spoilers unless you literally know nothing about that episode

Series: In the TARDIS-verse, after "Calculation" and "Nighthawks" (which are concurrent with one another) and before "Unexpected Light." Other stories in the series are TARDIS: Time and Relative Dimension in Space, Maybe I'll Miss you, Stupid Mouth Shut, and Circle 'Round the Sun. Not a Dr. Who crossover, just a borrowed concept.

* * *

It takes him longer than it should to realize that this is actually happening. That it's not some dream that has just taken a swift, harsh turn into nightmare. He has no idea—_no idea_—what is going on. It's like he just landed back in his body three seconds ago to find her leaving. To find her gone.

The door closes behind her with a sharp, final-sounding snick. That has him on the move at long last. He wrenches the door back open and starts down the hall after her. Suddenly registers that he's shirtless. Stops and checks to see that it's no worse.

His hands fumble at his belt and he's relieved that everything seems in order. _More or less_.

"Kate!" He calls after her desperately, awkwardly bracing the door open as he reaches for his shirt with fumbling hands. Tries to decide if a shirt is really mission critical when she's going—she's going without one look back. She's going.

He decides that it's worth the lost seconds. He's going where she goes, and he can't very well follow her out on to the street bare chested. He stoops and snatches blindly around the floor. Manages to snag the shirt, but it catches on something. He rips it free and shoves his arms in. Grunts and makes a bad job of the buttons.

He catches sight of something—two somethings, her shoes . . . _where the hell does she think she's going without her shoes?_

He snatches them up and remembers. Remembers her dropping away. Losing height and suddenly, suddenly, he thinks of Jenny even though it's ridiculous. Kate's a few inches shorter than him at most, and it's absurd, but he remembers looking down at her. At her mouth against his chest and hearing his own voice. His own maddening promise to be careful. To do the right thing.

And it's a cruel fucking world, because the taste of Kate's skin on his tongue. The memory of her hands on him. The perfect symmetry of them falling together finally, _finally_ . . . It's not the right thing. It's a cruel fucking world and none of it is the right thing.

At the last second, he has the presence of mind to grab his keys and shove them in his pocket. He lurches out into the hall after her, calling her name as urgently as he can. They haven't been exactly quiet so far and he has the kind of neighbors who mind. Who very pointedly mind and he does not want one of them spilling out into the hall and getting in the way. He can't let this get any more out of hand than it already has.

She's at the elevator. It's like he's missing time and she's already at the elevator.

She's terrifying. Eyes forward and spine straight. Eerily still and patient. She doesn't hear him. She's not listening. She doesn't turn. Not even when the doors slide open and she steps through.

She doesn't turn.

* * *

He dives through the doors just as they're closing and she almost hits him. Actually cocks back her fist and lets it fall to her side. He's holding her shoes to his chest like a riot shield. A very small, spike-heeled riot shield.

She laughs. She can't help it.

And he looks so relieved—so bone-deep relieved—that she wants to kiss him again. She doesn't know why it surprises her. She has no idea how it can _possibly_ still surprise her when she's thought about it every day. Every hour. A hundred times an hour for God knows how long. For years. If she's being honest? For years. Whoever he's been with. She's been with. They never stood a chance, those others. She's been thinking about it for years.

She takes a step toward him and she wants to tell him that. That it's been him for years. The words are all but out of her mouth. He shrinks away again and she chokes on something. A snarl. A shout. That's what she means it to be but it's not. It's a sob.

"Kate."

And that's an apology. It's pity and she wants to be furious. She _is _furious, but tears are pricking at the corners of her eyes. She'll be _damned_ if he sees her cry.

"Give me my shoes." Her hand shoots out and snatches at them. Her fingers hook over the backs and he lets go of them so quickly that she stumbles. She stumbles and he reaches for her.

"Don't touch me," she snaps.

He jerks back again. Hurt. It helps. She sees it, and it helps. She's not proud of it, but it sends the tears back where they belong.

"Kate." He's pleading. Trying to do something right. Anything right.

She knows this one. They've fallen into it over and over again in the last few months. She falls apart, and he takes the blame. And they both let him, whether he deserves it or not. Whether that's the whole story or not. It's never the whole story. It never is.

It's complicated. It's always so fucking complicated.

"What do you want, Castle?" It's all she can give him. It's all she has right now. But it's not nothing.

His eyes slip shut and he whispers something that might be _thank you._ Flattens himself against the corner of the elevator and tucks his hands behind him. It's as much to keep them off her as anything, but his fingers find the emergency stop. He pulls it. It's all he can think to do.

"Castle, what the hell?" She's startled enough to drop her shoes.

"Can you . . . Kate . . ." He draws a deep breath. His shoulders twitch, but he keeps his hands behind him. "Can you, please, just wait?"

She watches him. Knows what he's doing. She knows exactly what he's doing and she files it away.

"What do you want, Castle?" She repeats it, and it's a challenge now. She's not going to make this easy for him.

"Time . . . Kate," he lets his head drop back against the wall. Hard enough to hurt. It must have been. "Just a few minutes."

She's furious and desolate and she just wants to be out of there. But he's just as desolate. She sees the patient lines of his face, stark beneath the grief and worry and arousal that even now—even now—hasn't completely bled away. She relents.

He thanks her with a relieved sigh, but there's something else he wants. Something he wants and he's not asking. He's not asking.

"Castle?" It's weary, but not uncompromising. She hopes it's not.

"Could you . . . Can you . . . .?" He can't finish it. One awkward hand appears from behind his back and he makes an incomprehensible gesture.

She glares.

He stammers, "Your dress. Could you . . . ."

He makes the gesture again. She glares again. But there's more than a little triumph in it this time. She can't help feeling more than a little smug that it's not just her.

She keeps her eyes on him as she folds her arms behind her back. Changes her mind and pivots on one foot. She slowly steps backward until they're practically occupying the same space and purrs, "Little help?"

His hands are on her immediately and doing it. He's_ actually_ doing it. Tugging the zipper up and up with trembling hands. "This is so wrong."

She swivels to face him, and he realizes too late that he's said it out loud. She looks like she has a lot to say on the subject, but the wall speaker behind him crackles and she skips backward. Moves away from him at speed.

He turns half away from her to press the intercom. Reaches out his other hand to snag her fingers and she's breathless—immediately breathless again at the least contact.

"Eduardo?" He feels her trying to pull away and turns back toward her. Tugs her closer and kisses her fingertips.

"_Yes, Mr. Castle. Everything ok? _

"Fine," he says firmly. He looks her in the eye. "Everything is fine."

There's a polite pause and the sound of the doorman's voice again,_ "Shall I put the out of order sign on this car?" _

"That would be great, Eduardo, thank you."

"_My pleasure, sir. Just release the emergency stop when you're ready." _

Castle lets go the intercom button and drops her hand. Tries to find an opening.

She finds one first.

"This happens a lot?" She means for it to be steadier than it is. Means for it to be a casual jibe. The kind of thing they do a hundred times a day. She means for it to be normal, but she can still feel his lips on her fingertips and her breath isn't cooperating.

"I live with a teenager and an actress," he says. It's low and rough. Unhappy. So unhappy, but he's meeting her halfway on the everyday banter.

"And they live with you," she shoots back. It's ok. It's going to be ok. And this—the back and forth, them being them—that convinces her like nothing else can. It gives her courage. She still wants to run. Or hit him. Something. But it gives her courage.

"And they live with me," he admits. He's smiling a little. It's tired and sheepish and his eyes are on his feet. But he's trying. "It's not unprecedented."

She reaches for him and he doesn't pull back this time. His arms go around her and she hangs on. Presses her forehead to his chest and feels the weight of his lips on her hair.

"What happened? I thought . . ." Her breath hitches and she wants to stop. She just wants to shut up, but her stomach is turning over on itself and she has to know. "Castle, I know I'm a mess, but if you . . ."

He stops her. Ducks down and stops her lips with his own. Just a glancing touch to quiet her. "Shhh. No. Kate, that's not it . . . "

"Then what?" she bites it out. Knows her emotions are whipsawing all over the place, but she can't stop. "Then _what?_"

"She Meg Marched me!" He's stammering. Nervous. But he doesn't let go.

"She what?" Kate stiffens. Castle opens his mouth but she holds up a hand. "No. Not what. Who. Who first."

"Jenny," he says. "She used her . . . her witchy bride powers."

"Jenny," Kate repeats flatly.

He nods. Nervous. He can't tell how she's taking this. "She made me . . . it's her wedding day and she made me promise."

"Meg March." She's nodding now. Then shaking her head. Narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to the side. "_Little Women, _Castle?"

"I have a daughter, you know," he says defensively. She just looks at him. Arches an eyebrow and he crumbles. "Ok, fine. I read it in high school. To impress a girl."

"Get you anywhere?" She's smiling. She knows the answer. He shakes his head and she can't resist. She lifts up on her toes and kisses him. "Too bad."

"Too bad," he whispers back against her lips, but she's already pulling away. Straightening her spine and opening up a gap between them. She steps back and his hands fall away from her hips. He's not off the hook. Not by a long shot. "Too bad."

"So, Jenny made you promise . . ." she stops and something occurs to her. It flashes across her face._ Something. _

Hurt, definitely. Pain that he caused. That he could have saved her if he only weren't such a fucking moron. He wants to wrap her up in his arms again. But there's something else. Something worse. She's afraid. "Kate . . ."

She ignores him. Sets her jaw and goes on. "She made you promise to stay away from me?"

"No!" It's urgent all of a sudden. He shouldn't kiss her. Given everything, he shouldn't kiss her, but he does. Urgent words and his lips against hers. "Kate, no . . ."

"Then what?" She pushes away from him. Her voice is shaking. "_What_, Castle?"

"She made me promise . . . to be careful." It hits him all of a sudden. How it sounds. He's an idiot. _God_, he's an idiot.

"To be careful." She repeats the words. Flat and blank at first, but not for long. "With me. Like I'm some kind of fragile thing? Like I need someone to save me. LIke I need _you _to save me?"

"Kate, that's not . . ." he grabs her wrists and it's a mistake. It's a mistake. She hip checks him hard. Hard and it fucking hurts. He crowds her into the corner. Jerks his hands down and presses her wrists to the walls. "Kate!"

It's sharp enough that she stills. The anger isn't going anywhere, but she stills.

"This is not me . . ." he drags in a painful breath. "This isn't me being a fucking martyr, Kate. This isn't me saving you."

"Then _what_?" She's angry. Still angry, but the thread of hurt is there and it's worse. It's so much worse. "What, Castle?"

He drops her hands and then he's on her. His fingers slide into her hair. His mouth covers hers, and it's like nothing before. Like_ nothing _before. He's relentless. Hands. Lips. Teeth. Tongue. He's relentless, and it feels like the floor is falling away. The walls. Like she's falling away into him.

She brings her arms around him. Steadies herself and breaks the kiss. Has to. She has to breathe, but it hardly matters. His hands skim down her sides. Down to her hips. Back up again. His thumbs just brush the sides of her breasts and she gasps against him.

"Tell me." He whispers it. Low. Insistent. Fierce.

Her hair feels like it's standing on end and she'd tell him anything. _Anything. _

His lips are hot against her ear. "Tell me, Kate."

"Castle," she chokes it out. Presses her open mouth against his neck, but then he's pulling back. Arm's length between them and she can't fucking believe it. Can't make any sense of it at all when he's panting—practically vibrating with the effort it takes to stay away from her.

He closes the distance again, but it's slow now. Slow, deliberate kisses and he's not particular about where they land. The corner of her mouth. Her temple. Just in front of her ear. The tip of her nose. That one comes with a slow smile. With his eyes fluttering open. With words again. The same words. "Tell me, Kate."

She makes a frustrated noise and shakes her head. Twists to intercept his lips. She grabs the back of his head and stills him against her.

He nods and his eyes drop closed again. He leans his forehead against hers and struggles with something. Runs his hands back and forth over her shoulders and searches for the right words.

"Tell me you're ready." It's not much. It's not right. It's not what he wants, but it'll have to do. It'll have to do.

Her eyes fly open, "Castle, I . . ." She can't think what to say. Has no idea how to finish the thought other than the obvious, that she wants him. She _wants _him. But she can't bring the words up.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter anyway, because he doesn't expect it. He doesn't expect her to answer.

"Tell me you won't wake up tomorrow and regret it." He kisses her cheek. The corner of her mouth.

He kisses her again and again and breaks her heart each time.

"Tell me you'll be there in the morning. And the morning after that and the morning after that."

She's quiet. He is, too. Now he is, and it's terrible. Even when he slips his arms around her and holds her close, it's terrible, because she wants him to tell her again. She wants to hear it, and how can she want that—how can she _need_ that—when he's right? He's right.

They're quiet. Quiet together, but he's holding her and she's holding him. It's terrible, but there's a miserable kind of triumph in it, too. She's glad in a stony, bleached out sort of way that that they have this. In the end they have this at least.

He smooths her hair back after while and speaks. Tired. He sounds tired, but better, too. She has to believe he sounds better.

"I'm not trying to save you, Kate. But that's where I am. I want . . ." He hesitates, but his fingers are strong and sure against her. "I want tomorrows with you. A lot of them. I'm not trying to make decisions for you. I wouldn't. I wouldn't. And if you tell me . . ."

He trails off. He buries his nose in her hair and rushes on, "If you tell me you're ready . . . that you're there . . . then I will throw you over my shoulder and drag you upstairs and bar the door."

She kisses him, then. It's probably the worst idea in the world, but it's all she can think to do. She kisses him, long and sweet and lazy. Leans against the wall and pulls his body over hers. Drapes him along her and kisses him.

"I'm not," she whispers it between kisses. "I'm sorry. I wish . . . I want to be, Castle. I want to be, but I'm not. I'm not."

She expects him to pull away. Expects him to leave. Expects . . . something. A scene. An ending. Another thing she's killed. But he just keeps on kissing her and it feels the same. It feels exactly the same.

"Are you hungry?" He asks it casually. Slides his lips sideways to make conversation easier. He keeps kissing her.

"Hungry?" Her voice is high. A little hysterical. She's tired. She's confused.

"Mmmm," he laughs. Nips at her jaw. "For food, Beckett. Are you hungry for food?"

She is. It's amazing, given the circumstances, but she is.

"Yes." She kisses him exactly under the chin and he shivers a little. "Hungry. But we can't go to New Fancy Foods."

He pulls back, looks at her sharply. "Well now I want the hash. Why can't we?"

"Lanie and Esposito." She kisses him one last time. One last time for now.

"At New Fancy Foods? What the hell? That's _our_ place."

"I know!" She chews her lip. Thinking. Thinking. "This is really all their fault."

"Their fault?" Castle frowns. Gets it a second later. "Oh. _Oh_. I don't know whether to superglue their phones together or send them a fruit basket."

She glares at him, but he just kisses her. Whispers low and wicked in her ear, "Come on, Beckett. It's a pretty epic time out."

She relents. Laughs against his cheek. "Still . . . no hash."

"True. But this is New York. We'll find something." He starts to back away from her. Thinks better of it when she tenses. He pulls her with him across the elevator and presses the intercom. "Eduardo? Can you send us up?"

"_Of course, Mr. Castle. And I'll take the sign down." _

"You're the best." Castle presses the red release button and they glide upward.

"Shoes," he says in answer to her questioning look. His eyes rake up and down her body and she feels a flush creep up her neck. He smiles and adds, "And a coat for you."

"I don't have anything formal." She gives him a defensive tug of the ear. Leans on him as she nudges her own shoes upright with her toes and steps in to them.

He waits until she's finished and ducks away. Swoops back in to nip at her ear. "Four years. At least five hundred coats I've seen on you. And you don't have anything formal?"

She starts to respond but they're almost at his floor and he has her up against the wall for one last burning kiss. He steps clear of her. The picture of innocence by the time the doors glide open.

She follows him to his door and he hesitates.

"Don't tell me you locked yourself out?

"No." He's blushing. Fumbling in his pocket for the keys. She can hear them jangling, and she wonders what in the world could possibly make him blush at this point. "I . . . I think you'd better wait here."

Something blazes up in her. Fills her with fire and energy and determination. She feels powerful and she thinks that's probably the point. That's probably the point.

She looks at him. Narrows her eyes, but he's fitting the key in the lock. He's not looking at her. There's a smile just playing at the corner of his lips, but he's not looking at her.

She steps up against him. Right up against him and feels another rush of that power. Fire. Fire blazes up when he can't quite drag in a full breath. She rests her chin on his shoulder. Parks her mouth by her ear and whispers, "Afraid of me, Castle?"

He turns all the way around. Somehow he turns all the way around, and they're eye to eye.

"Terrified," he breathes as his lips just brush hers. "Terrified."

And then the door is open behind him and he's ducking through.

"Be right back," he says quickly. Shy and boyish all of a sudden. Worried. "Stay right there."

He leans out and kisses her again. She kisses him.

"Right here, Castle," she says. "I'll be right here."

* * *

A/N: It was touch and go there for a while. This almost took a turn where they did the deed, but I just don't think they were there in January. At least not in such a way that their relationship could have progressed. Kate wouldn't have been there in the morning and I didn't want to write that. At least not here. So I hope this rings at least somewhat true.


End file.
